


The Book

by EllianaDunla



Series: The Written Word [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Sequel to The Journal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-22 01:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 166,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6066076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllianaDunla/pseuds/EllianaDunla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evil is stirring in Mordor and the dwarves of Erebor are preparing for war. Meanwhile, in another world, a determined author investigates a seventy-seven year old disappearance. And Gandalf is not quite done meddling with the Andrews family just yet... </p><p>Sequel to The Journal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Author

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read The Journal, I strongly suggest you do before you get started on this fic; the characters won't make much sense otherwise.
> 
> For those who did read The Journal: welcome back. This is likely to be long, so I hope you're up for it.
> 
> Enjoy!

_**“Do not read, as children do, to amuse yourself, or like the ambitious, for the purpose of instruction. No, read in order to live.”** _   
_**Gustave Flaubert** _

* * *

 

Chapter 1   
The Author

**Erebor, late summer 3019 TA**

The sun was just rising over the horizon, its rays touching the eastern slopes of the Lonely Mountain. Summer was nearing its end and there was a chill in the morning air, reminding one and all that autumn was close. The author didn’t feel the cold. She’d wrapped herself in a cloak that was too short for her. To make sure her feet didn’t freeze off she’d taken a blanket to cover them up.

From where she was sitting the surrounding lands looked perfectly peaceful. In this light everything looked peaceful. Most folk were still abed, at least for the moment. Soon enough there would be people out and about, clearing away all the reminders that not so long ago war had raged over these lands. The author had heard the stories, although she hadn’t been here when it all happened. But through their tales it was as though she had witnessed some of the events herself, from multiple perspectives. And she was an author; it was her lot in life to write down all these stories so that they wouldn’t be forgotten.

‘Have you been here all night?’

The author looked round. Not that she needed to; she knew who the voice belonged to. ‘Only a few hours,’ she replied. ‘I wanted to see the sunrise.’

The wanderer sat himself down beside her. If the cold ground bothered him, he didn’t show it. ‘You finished reading then?’ It wasn’t so much a question as a conclusion.

The author nodded. ‘I did.’

In the past months he had gotten to know her entirely too well; he heard what she hadn’t translated into the spoken word. ‘It did not help, did it?’

There was some understanding there, but there was also the tone of voice that betrayed he had expected that result long before it had arrived. She felt a little put out with him for that, especially because he had warned her that reading someone else’s story was not always a guideline for one’s own life. Of course, after what she had been through herself, she ought to have known that. Maybe it had been easier to ignore it, instead clinging to the altogether rather childish belief that one book could somehow help her figure out what to do with her own life.

Of course her friend had known, but it was the kind of wisdom she had not expected from him. Not that this wanderer was by any means a simple soul – there was intelligence there clear as daylight – but his knowledge and wisdom were of a different nature. He was more of a practical person whereas she… well, she didn’t actually know any more what she was and wasn’t.

For a moment she contemplated lying, but he’d see through that in seconds and so it served no point. ‘It didn’t. The situations are too… different.’ Different was not a word that conveyed all that she wanted to, but she failed to come up with a more satisfactory alternative. A bit disappointing, that. Words were her trade after all. _It has been too long since I’ve written anything_ , she lamented silently. _My skills are getting rusty._

‘And yet strangely alike as well,’ he observed.

She shot him an irritated glance. ‘When did you get so wise?’

‘You never noticed it before,’ he replied airily. ‘Didn’t mean it wasn’t there.’

The author gave him a long, hard look and finally noticed what she should probably have seen right away, had she not been so lost in her own thoughts. ‘You didn’t get any sleep either, did you?’

‘Not much,’ he admitted. ‘I keep on thinking…’ He trailed off. ‘Never mind what I was thinking. It’s a dismal thought and it won’t bring him back.’

She nodded and let him drop the subject. It wasn’t her place to intrude on his grief. They were friends, true enough, but she’d always felt there was some line that she shouldn’t cross. This was that line. If there was anything she had learned about him and his family, it was that they did not talk about what they felt easily, if they spoke of it at all. Her friend’s grief seemed to have opened him up some, but not overly much.

There was silence between them for a time as they watched the sun rise. It was beautiful here, the author thought. It would be even more so when the last scars of war had been gone from the land. She’d always had too vivid an imagination and she could almost picture what it had been like only a few months previous. Bodies littering the ground, trees burning, battle cries filling the air. A shiver went down her spine. She’d seen enough of war not to need an imagination of any kind to picture a battlefield. _Would that I could make myself forget._

‘So, what will you do?’ the wanderer asked, breaking the silence at last.

‘I don’t know.’ That had been her answer for so long now that it came to her lips almost effortlessly. _I don’t know, but I will know soon. As soon as I’ve done this, as soon as I’ve seen that…_ But she had done this and she had seen that and she was no closer to an answer.

He looked at her, well-known half-smile on his face. ‘Well, I’m no scholar and I’ve always abhorred any sort of activity that involves quills and parchments, but you’re different, aren’t you?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not so sure. I haven’t written anything in so long.’

He must know that she was making excuses. ‘My sister always tells me writing is like riding a pony. You don’t forget because you haven’t done it in a while.’ He conjured up a smile. ‘It’s been her favourite argument to get my brother to do his letter-writing for many years now.’

‘This is not letter-writing,’ the author pointed out. ‘Besides, what point would there be to it? I’ve got all the information, but if I wrote it down and had it published, who would believe it? And she has already told her own tale. There’s no need for my book.’ She snorted. ‘Imagine that. All the work that’s gone into this investigation and now it turns out I can’t write about it after all. There’s irony in that somewhere.’

‘I didn’t mean her story,’ he said in a tone that suggested the idea must have occurred to her. ‘I meant yours. You’ve done enough of your so-called research to make it a good one.’

‘It’s not just so-called…’ she began to protest, a habit that had been years in the making. Research was what she based her work on. She was not one of those story-writers. Her work was based in fact and she liked to keep it that way, thank you very much. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I don’t write stories.’

‘Your work is based in hard facts,’ her friend agreed, parroting her endless refrain back at her. ‘Just wondering why you seem to be thinking all our adventures are mere stories. Didn’t it feel real enough?’

She snorted. ‘There were times when it didn’t.’ There had been times when she could have sworn she had wandered into a dream or a nightmare, depending on the situation. ‘And even if I wanted to, I don’t have the time.’

That look told her how much he believed of that. ‘If you didn’t have the time, then why come all the way up here?’ he asked. Clearly it had been meant as a rhetorical question and she treated it that way. Her not bothering with an answer had nothing to do with not wanting to admit she didn’t have a clue why she had acted as she did.

Truth was, she was not even all that certain why she kept on delaying the inevitable. She had known what the outcome of all her pondering would be before she even began. No, that was not entirely true. She had known what the outcome _should_ be. It was not the same thing, not the same thing at all.

What was true though was that time was rapidly slipping away. A choice had to be made and the longer she thought about it, the more she convinced herself that her friend was right. If she did this, if she wrote about what happened the way she did in her other books, her own path might seem a bit clearer than it was now. That wasn’t necessarily true, but she could make herself believe it if she only tried hard enough.

In the end it was the lack of a suitable alternative that decided her. She had spent the better part of the morning wondering about what to do, but sitting on a mountainside thinking about it hadn’t gotten her anywhere in the previous days, so it stood to reason it would not miraculously get her anywhere in the days to come.

She had been given a room of her own. It was sparsely furnished, but there was a writing desk and, thanks to her friend, enough writing equipment to keep her stocked for weeks. Her belongings, including all her documentation, the result of months of painstaking research, were scattered around the place. The wanderer had been right; she had more than enough hard facts to base her story on.

‘Bugger these quills,’ she muttered when she sat herself down. The author had used them before, but only briefly and mainly for short notes. This would not be short by any stretch of the imagination. And her penmanship wasn’t going to win her any prizes either. Her script was barely readable even when she had better material to work with. ‘Positively medieval.’ It was hardly the first time she had uttered comments like that and it was surely not the last time either.

But there was nothing else for it. She took a deep breath, dipped her quill in the ink and began to write.

_Here follows the account…_


	2. Chance of Success

_Here follows the account of the War of the Ring and the War in the North as written down by Elizabeth Andrews in the year 3019 of the Third Age of Middle Earth. Be warned: this is not a story written for the amusement of idle readers. All events described in this account have truly happened. They have been written down to ensure that they won't be forgotten as time passes and the witnesses of those horrible days die of old age._

_I am aware that a great many people have written and will write about the War of the Ring, no doubt all of these writings are true, all of them accurate in every last detail. What can one more book have to offer then when so many others are out there? Not much, perhaps, but that is not why I have set pen to paper. This book tells of these events as witnessed by one family._

_How to begin a tale such as this one? A wise man once told me to start at the beginning, but such a point is hard to find. As I write this I am well aware that more history precedes this book than I could ever hope to write. But most of that is written down elsewhere and it is not my goal to retell that story, especially since I won't be able to tell it better than it was before._

_This part begins not in Erebor or even Middle Earth. No, one could say that it really all began with an investigation into a seventy-seven year old disappearance…_

There were days when Beth came this close to following her grandfather's advice and give her latest project up as a lost cause. This close, but not quite close enough. However, that didn't mean she couldn't call it a day. She had spent all day in her study, mostly reading old documents, and she could feel the tension in her muscles as they protested having been forced into one position for far too long. Besides, the noises coming from downstairs started to suggest there was a full-blown war taking place in her living room.

It might even do her good, taking a break before her mind got too clogged up with events of nearly eighty years previous. No matter how much documentation there was, and there seemed to be enough to fill a library with, it all amounted to the same thing: the mystery she was researching had been unsolved back in the day, which honestly didn't bode well for Beth's own chances of success. No, best get her mind back to the present for the moment.

And it was not as if her son and nephew weren't doing everything in their powers to keep her grounded in the here and now, screeching as if the devil himself was at their heels. She'd been able to hear them for about half an hour now, but she'd been able to ignore them as long as she knew her sister was there to ensure she'd have furniture left at all.

'Little devils giving you grief?' she asked as she entered the living room.

Mary, her older sister and sort-of babysitter-on-demand, had taken refuge on the couch to keep out of the way of the excited five year olds chasing one another around the coffee table. 'Not so much,' she replied. 'They haven't broken anything. Yet.'

'Lucky me,' Beth remarked wryly. Grateful though she was that Mary's current unemployment meant she could get a babysitter whenever she needed one, she didn't quite approve of her sister's method of raising kids. _Live and let live so long as nobody gets hurt_ was her motto of choice and saying no had never been her strong suit. 'Boys, that's quite enough of that. Go and play outside!'

Thomas looked at her in astonishment, but at least it stopped that headache-inducing shrieking of his. 'It's cold out!' he complained.

It was at that. 'But the sun is shining,' Beth countered. 'Go on.'

Harry, bless him, knew better than to go against her when she used that decisive tone. Thomas, having the bad fortune of being born Mary's son and therefore used to having his own way, had no such advantage. 'Mum, I don't want to go! I want to play inside!'

True to expectations, Mary was already leaping to her son's defence. 'Elizabeth, don't you think you could…?'

Really, Beth loved her sister to bits, but there were days she could cheerfully strangle her. 'My house, my rules,' she reminded her. 'Come on, kids, out you go.'

Harry was already on the way to fetch his shoes and coat, but Thomas cast one last pleading look at his mother. Mary fortunately had the good sense not to debate the _my house, my rules_ dictate Beth issued and backed her up, telling the little brat to go and take their games outside, to Beth's infinite relief. She could already feel a headache coming on and shouting children really weren't all that helpful when trying to battle one.

'Coffee?' Mary asked sympathetically. 'Or painkiller?'

Beth let herself fall onto the sofa. 'How about both?'

Mary chuckled. 'That bad, huh?'

'It never quite ceases to amaze me how many words some people need to convey the very simple message of I don't know.' Of course that would make most of the reports she had tackled today infinitely shorter, but then, no one actually wanted to read the I don't know. It sounded too much like defeat, she supposed. 'And whoever wrote most of those blasted files really didn't like saying what he needed to say in one sentence when he could easily use ten to say the exact same bloody thing.'

'Oh, you poor thing.' It would have sounded more understanding if she didn't chuckle in amusement. 'But you're a writer; surely you're guilty of the same thing now and again?'

'Not on that scale,' Beth defended herself. 'And that's different. I write books. Police reports shouldn't need to be written the same way.'

'Who knows. It might have been a cop with author aspirations.'

'Good thing he never got published then. _Thank_ you.' She accepted both the coffee and the painkiller with genuine gratefulness. 'You're an angel. Did anyone ever tell you?'

'You do, whenever it suits you,' Mary countered. 'When I do what you want.'

Beth mock-glared at her. 'I take my words back. You're a menace and a pain in the behind. But thank you for the coffee all the same.'

'I love you too,' Mary said lightly, taking the remaining spot on the couch. 'So how'd it go?'

'No one seems to know anything,' Beth summarised. 'That's just about my research in a nutshell.' And didn't that frustrate her. She had made it her job to write books about crimes – kidnappings, murders, you name it – and reconstruct what had happened at the time, making it a story that people could relate to, that was more than just the hard facts. She hadn't thought people would be interested at first, but at thirty-one she had two bestselling books to her name, so there was that assumption proven wrong. However, the third one would never get written if she didn't get anywhere with this project soon.

'Well, it was almost eighty years ago,' Mary commented. 'And no one seemed to know what happened even then. Have you considered giving up?'

This time there was nothing mocking about the glare. 'I'm no quitter. And it's seventy-seven years.'

'Close enough to eighty for me.' Mary shrugged. 'Look, I know you'd love to solve the unsolved family mystery, but face it, if they couldn't solve it then, you probably can't solve it now. Besides, even if Kate Andrews has been secretly alive all those years, there's no way she's alive now. She'd be what… over a hundred years old?'

'Almost hundred and one,' Beth corrected. 'Her birthday's in August. So, she could be alive. People have been known to get older.'

'You're a hopeless optimist, you are.'

'And you love me anyway.'

Truth was, Beth really wasn't about to give up. Kate Andrews was the one that had triggered her career in the first place. She was, as Mary had said, the family mystery. She'd disappeared a couple of months before her twenty-fourth birthday and hadn't been seen since and not for lack of trying on the part of the police, as she could testify. Grandpa Andrews had always kept a picture of her on the mantelpiece till the day he died. Kate had been his twin sister and Beth had always had the feeling he never really stopped missing her. It was for his memory as well as her own curiosity that she had decided to take up the case and, opportunistic though it may be, make a book out of it at the same time.

Not that her grandfather had encouraged her in this. Quite the contrary, he had always tried to dissuade her from digging too deep. Beth must have been very young still when she went to visit her paternal grandparents and had finally plucked up the courage to ask about the smiling red-haired woman in the frame on the mantelpiece. 'That's your great-aunt Kate,' her grandpa had replied. 'But she went missing.'

'Oh,' Beth remembered saying. 'Did she move? Is that why you couldn't find her?' Aunt Susan had moved not long before that, to Australia of all places. In her young girl's eyes that was too far away to comprehend.

He'd hoisted her onto his lap then, smiling with sad eyes. 'No, dear one. She disappeared. No one could find her and we searched long and hard.'

'Oh,' she'd said again. 'That's…' Well, she didn't know what it was, so in the end she settled on the emotion she saw in his eyes. 'Sad.'

Indeed, the sadness didn't leave his face, not even when he smiled at her again. 'It is. But it's a long time ago now. Don't worry yourself about it.'

'Why do you have the picture then?' Beth insisted. As far as she knew, her parents didn't keep Aunt Susan's picture on the mantelpiece. Not that they had a mantelpiece, but that was beside the point.

'To remember her,' he'd replied. 'Now, on you go and play. You're too young to share an old man's grief.'

He had obviously meant for her to forget all about Kate and her mysterious disappearance, but she had not and how could she, what with that picture always in sight? Over the years her curiosity had grown and grown and her grandfather's attempts to dissuade her from finding out more about it had fallen on deaf ears. If anything, it only piqued her curiosity even more. And so here she was, ten years after his death, investigating the woman who unknowingly had set her on her path to her rather successful career.

'Did you find anything at all?' Mary asked.

'Well, there was one apparent witness to her abduction, one Jeremy Grey,' Beth said. And that part of documentation had been the strangest by far. 'But I think he was a bit off his rocker.' What other explanation could there be?

'How so?' Mary asked, intrigued now.

'Well, he claimed a sudden whirlwind came and took her away from the bus stop where she was waiting. According to the report, he got pretty mad at the police when they didn't believe him.' And no one in his senses would believe in magic. Well, unless they'd overdosed on fantasy novels.

'Attention seeker?' Mary offered by way of explanation.

Beth nodded. 'Probably. The strange thing is that he never once got back on his story, though. He insisted it was true until the day he died, which you have to admit is pretty unusual if he was just an attention seeker. He lived to the age of ninety and never once did he as much as admit he might have been mistaken.'

She knew; she'd phoned his living relatives. Not that they had any other insights to offer. Just her luck that she had gotten hold of the one member of the Grey family who was a fan of her work. It had taken her a lot of counting to ten to stay her tongue and nearly ten minutes before she could cut the gushing short and get to the heart of the matter. And the reply she got was probably worth her time, even if she failed to make any sort of sense of it so far. There was just that gut feeling that had helped her a couple of times before that insisted this was somehow important. The thing was that's she wasn't anywhere close to figuring out why.

'Well, there's that avenue of inquiry shut off,' Mary observed. 'And I imagine it can't be easy finding out anything at all, seeing as how all those involved in her case are all dead.' She shook her head indulgently. 'You couldn't pick a more recent case, could you?'

Beth grinned cheekily. 'Where would be the fun in that? And it's not as if I'm all out of options yet. Apparently grandpa and his father hired a private detective, someone called Patrick Miles. I've been trying to get hold of his stuff. His daughter called me the other day, agreeing to meet. Who knows what I might uncover.'

Mary shook her head. 'And I suppose you want me to look after Harry while you're off on your quest for information?'

'You'd be my favourite sister if you did,' Beth said. It was a relief not to have to ask it herself. She could hardly take a young boy with her all over the country, especially on school days, but it started to feel like she was taking advantage of her when she asked for the umpteenth time if maybe she'd feel like taking Harry for the afternoon so she could either go and meet someone, bury herself in an archive or just plainly get some work done without having to keep an eye out for any trouble her son might make.

Mary swatted her head and only missed because Beth saw her coming and ducked in time. 'I'm your _only_ sister.'

Beth didn't miss a beat. 'And all the more dear to me because of it.'

* * *

 

Truth be told, he had no idea what he was doing here. Or, more accurately, he knew what he was doing here, he just didn't know _why_ he was doing it. Thráin, second son of Thorin, was crouched up in a tree near Amon Lhaw, looking down into the clearing below, searching the surroundings for any kind of movement.

There was nothing worth mentioning so far. He had been sitting here since sunrise and he had not seen the smallest signs of life in all that time, not even that of a bird. Not that he had expected birds; they had abandoned this area. Too many orcs roamed these lands nowadays and where evil came, life vanished, either because the orcs ate all life forms or because they'd had the good sense to know when to leave in order to save their lives.

But not even orcs had been here today or any day for the past week, if his friend had read the trails right. It was past midday already, there was no sign of his quarry and by now Thráin's legs had started to cramp. He was a dwarf – or half a dwarf anyway – and his Maker had not made him for sitting in trees all day.

The notion that the prey may have been on to the plan forced itself on Thráin's mind and if that was the case, it may have long since fled, as fast and as far as its legs could carry it. He could very well be wasting his time here, waiting for a creature – his friend had been rather vague on the particulars – that was probably long gone. It could take them several days to catch it up again.

He risked a glance at his companion in the nearby tree. If he found his position cramped, then surely his friend must be even far less comfortable. Thráin was tall for a dwarf, but the Ranger was tall for one of the race of Men and the crouched posture must be even worse for him.

They were an odd duo to be travelling together for more reasons than just the one that they belonged to different races and that in itself was quite remarkable. There were not very many dealings between men and dwarves. Thráin, having been raised in Erebor, had naturally seen his fair share of men in Dale and Esgaroth, but they were vastly different from the Rangers of Eriador. Generally, the two races could hardly stand the sight of one another and they had literally ages of prejudice standing in the way. Not that it had stopped his parents, but they were unique, an exception to the rule.

The second reason why the friendship was so strange was Thráin himself. Dwarves weren't natural wanderers, especially not when they had a kingdom to call their own. Durin's Folk hadn't wandered since Erebor had been retaken and that was before Thráin had been born. But he had always been restless and as soon as he was old enough he had taken off, wandering Middle Earth and enjoying every single moment of it. And so what if he had made some strange friendships along the way? He was already an oddity among his own kind. What harm could one more possibly do him?

Of course he had to amend his claim of enjoyment, as he certainly was not doing so now. Nevertheless his friend had assured him that it was as necessary as it was tedious. That was all he had said on the matter and so Thráin could only wonder at the Ranger's motives. Secretive as dwarves they could be and often were. This time was no exception. But Thráin trusted him, even though he was just burning to ask what he had done in the Dead Marshes where he had found him three days past. He had merely offered his services and was confident in knowing that an explanation would eventually be offered to him.

The Ranger sent him a smile and discreetly pointed in the direction of where Thráin knew the falls of Rauros to be. His sharper hearing must have caught something his dwarven friend had missed.

He strained his eyes to see something, but the forest remained as abandoned as it had been all morning. Nothing moved and the only sounds to be heard were the ever-present roaring of the waters falling in the distance and the gentle wind in the early springtime leaves of the forest.

He was about to think that the other had been imagining things when he too started to hear sounds other than wind or water coming from the direction that had been indicated. The dwarf frowned, listening to determine the source of the sound. He was a skilled hunter – the natural result of spending months on the road by himself when there was no one to provide for him – and he was certain that the creature that was approaching was moving on four legs rather than two. And yet his friend had led him to believe they were hunting a creature of some intelligence. Thráin had yet to hear of a sentient being that moved around on all fours, though.

The mystery was solved the next moment. The creature moved into his line of sight and rendered Thráin utterly speechless in doing so. What was this? He had encountered most races that dwelt in Middle Earth – with varying measures of success – but he was unable to name this one.

Their quarry was small. He'd stand no higher than a hobbit were he to stand on his – yes, definitely a male being, he thought on inspection – feet. The creature was naked except for a dirty rag covering his private parts. The lack of clothing allowed Thráin to see how skinny he was; he could carry out a count of ribs even from this distance. He vaguely looked like a man, save for the distinctive lack of hair. The creature was bald save for a few stubborn wisps still clinging to the skull. But in all of this it were the eyes that really got Thráin's attention. They were wide, too wide for the face and he'd call the look in them innocent were it not for the unmistakable gleam of madness within.

What was this?

Save for that look in the eyes Thráin would think it positively harmless, but Strider had sworn that this pitiful creature was one of the most dangerous to roam the world today. Given that they were forced to share their world with orcs, some dark force in Mordor and all sorts of unsavoury beings nowadays that was saying something. The claim seemed almost absurd now that the dwarf had laid eyes on it himself, but he trusted his friend. Even though, he'd have some explaining to do.

He moved, no, practically danced through the forest, completely unaware of their presence. A fish was in his hands. He took a bite out of it every now and then, before he went on again, randomly bursting into song.

_'Our only wish,_

_To catch a fish,_

_So juicy sweet!'_

Thráin's jaw dropped when he heard the singing, or what was supposed to pass for it anyway. The voice sounded like it had not been used in a while, but it sounded happy, if not entirely sane. Who would dare sing here now when it was well-known that orcs regularly patrolled these shores?

'Gollum! Gollum!' the creature spat the next moment. He sounded like he was choking on his very own words.

A few dots connected in Thráin's head. He had heard that word, that _name_ before. Yes, it was a name, the creature's name. After all, it was a name from the stories. He'd visited Bilbo Baggins in the past and the old hobbit had been more than willing to regale his old friend's son with the tales of his adventures. Thráin also suspected some were rather embellished for purposes of entertainment, but then again, so were most of the stories he knew. And Gollum was the name of the being Bilbo had encountered under the Misty Mountains after he got separated from the company. What was it doing here and, most importantly, how was it still alive after all these years? Gollum was no elf or dwarf that he could lay claim to a lifespan that was long enough.

There was no time to further contemplate these questions. The sign came from the other tree and Thráin jolted into action, dropping the net on Gollum's unsuspecting head. The trap had shut itself.

The racket that followed this action could have woken even the dead. The screeching and wailing as Gollum tried to escape his trap hardly made it possible to hear one's own thoughts. He flailed in his bonds, fish flying out of his hands, but he only managed to entangle himself further in the ropes.

And even if they had the good fortune of not having encountered as much as a single orc in the past few days, that stroke of luck must now surely have ended. Before long a patrol would come to see what the noise was all about. Orcs, contrary to popular belief, after all were not stupid. It was true enough that they were disorganised and needed a firm hand to unite them in a single goal, but Thráin had met enough of them – in a fight generally – to know that orcs possessed both a certain measure of intelligence and a far greater measure of low cunning that he had learned not to be on the receiving side of.

He climbed down the tree, knowing the Ranger would have come to the same conclusion and would make due haste. 'We cannot linger,' he warned.

His companion nodded. 'I know. Hold him down while I cut the ropes.'

Thráin nodded. They did not need a great many words to understand each other well. And it would be foolishness to waste time in trying to untangle Gollum while he flailed so. Cutting the ropes would both be faster and more logical.

'We will need to gag him lest we bring the orcs down on us wherever we go,' Thráin observed, expertly avoiding the long fingers with the sharp nails that had been going for his eyes, pinning them down whilst a well-placed knee held the lower half under control. It was not ideal, but he would have to make do, because, though skinny Gollum might be, he was by no means weak and madness had a way of strengthening a body beyond all expectation. And up close the madness in those wide eyes was more pronounced, almost frightening in a way.

'I need to make for the realm of Thranduil,' Strider replied, cursing softly as the creature bit his hand. Thráin's response was to apply more pressure. 'The elves will look after him while I inform Gandalf of his capture.' He did not bother keeping his purpose from their struggling captive, who after all could do nothing with that information even if he wanted to, or stopped wailing long enough to make out any of their words at all, come to think of it.

Thráin wrinkled his nose at the mention of the names of the two people he liked least in all the world in one single sentence. 'Oh aye, Thranduil takes good care of his prisoners.' Maybe this was his parents' bitterness he had inherited, absorbed after hearing the story too many times, but he had seen enough of Thranduil for himself to have formed his own opinion of the elf and it was far from favourable.

Strider smiled. 'Do not let your father's grudge cloud your judgement, my friend.'

'As long as you do not let your love of the elves cloud yours,' he countered lightly.

The topic of elves was something they were never going to agree on. Different experiences made for different sentiments and those were not easily overcome. Nor did Thráin want to. He'd seen enough of elvish sanctimonious behaviour to last him several lifetimes. And Strider could never know what it was like to be in Thráin's boots. How could he, being one of the race of Men, being raised in Lord Elrond's house? He'd never felt the enmity between dwarves and elves as keenly as Thráin had.

'They do not support the darkness,' Strider said. The amusement about Thráin's insistence to not like the pointy-eared tree-lovers had made way for a seriousness that hinted at some knowledge that his dwarvish friend did not yet possess. 'That is the only distinction on which anyone should make their decisions in these dark times.'

Thráin favoured him with a scrutinising look. 'Is it really that bad further south?'

Now it was the Ranger's turn to give Thráin a searching glance. 'How do you know where I came from?'

'You were travelling northwards when I came upon you,' he answered. 'It was no difficult leap to make.' It had him worrying though, worrying about what his friend had seen, where he'd been. Whatever the answers, it sufficed to give his eyes that haunted look he could see there now. 'What route will you take?'

'Along the river northwards until I turn eastwards along the Old Forest Road. Then northwards again until I reach Thranduil's realm. The old road is safe, is it not?'

And so it was. About ten years after his birth, Thráin's father had swallowed his pride and launched a campaign with the elves of Mirkwood to make that old road safe once and for all, for even after the fall of Dol Guldur orcs still used that road, making it a perilous path for travel. Afterwards a group of skilled dwarves had restored the road, making it passable once more. It had been one of the main trade roads ever since. But with orcs increasing in number and evil brewing in Mordor, trade had mostly dried up.

'I would not take that road,' Thráin counselled. 'It will take you too close to Dol Guldur. You should not venture there unless there was no other option. Word has it that an evil force has once again taken up residence there.'

An eyebrow was raised. 'Was it only word you heard, friend, or did you venture there yourself?'

'I declare I know not what you mean,' Thráin announced, which was as good an answer as any. Indeed he had gone there, or as close as he dared anyway. He'd come near enough to see the fortress and to feel the stifling air of fear penetrating every last corner. It had wrapped itself around him like a blanket until he was shaking with dread. Dread for what exactly he did not know, but it was strong enough to make him turn tail and make a hasty retreat. Even then, he had been unable to stop looking over his shoulder for days. His conduct was not one he was proud of and so it was a tale best left untold. 'I am merely telling you it would be best to avoid Mirkwood altogether and go round in the east. It is the shorter route either way.'

'Slightly shorter,' Strider corrected. He had freed Gollum from the net and now secured other, more manageable bonds in its place. To Thráin's relief these bonds included a gag. 'And I have heard word of armies amassing in the east.'

He had a ready answer for that. 'I'd rather fight armies of flesh and blood than forces my sword and axe cannot contend with.'

Strider nodded. 'I shall take your word for it.' He finished gagging Gollum and, with Thráin's help, set him on his feet. 'Where does your road lead?'

'I've a mind to clap eyes on the old homestead again,' Thráin replied airily. Like his father, he was not one for speaking of his emotions when he could let his actions do the talking for him. His concern for his friend was such an emotion. Besides, it had been too long since he had been home. 'My siblings might forget my face if I do not show it from time to time. And someone has to keep Jack out of trouble.'

Strider saw through it in moments. 'I'd be glad of the company on the road.'

'You'll need someone to save you from your own cooking, is what you mean!' Thráin teased. Whatever his friend had learned from his time with the elves, preparing a decent meal had not been a part of it.

The indulgent smile he had anticipated did not come and when Thráin looked up, there was indeed no mirth to be found in his eyes. 'When you do come home,' he said, 'when you do, warn your brother he will need to prepare for war. The storm that is brewing might come to his doorstep sooner than he thought and it might prove to be stronger than any in living memory.'

It was obvious that it was not the weather Strider mentioned. Deep inside, beyond the mask of calm, some of the dread he had felt at Dol Guldur resurfaced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For most part I'll stick to the time lines in the books, but here and there I'll go my own way, which means that Gollum's capture in this story takes place in 3018 TA instead of 3017 TA. That sets the events in this chapter around February 3018.
> 
> For those of you who haven't figured it out: Beth is the granddaughter of Kate's twin brother Jacko, who was the main character in The Journal.
> 
> Next time: Duria has a letter to deliver and Thoren receives a visitor in the night.
> 
> I'd love your feedback on this, so reviews are very welcome.


	3. Dark Visitor

_At the time I was still looking into Kate Andrews's disappearance I had no idea that there was such a thing as Middle Earth. By the time I was born, Tolkien's works were considered classics. People still read them, even though the movies made about them were considered old. For years there'd been talk of a remake, but thus far no one had gotten round to it that I knew of._

_I myself was familiar with the Lord of the Rings and I kind of liked it, though my work and my son hardly left me any time to read for pleasure and the mere idea to ask my sister to babysit Harry so that I could have a sit down and spend some quality time with a book was laughable. Little did I know that Tolkien's work and Kate Andrews were intimately connected._

_And speaking of Kate Andrews leads automatically to speaking of her children…_

 

Duria was a dwarf on a mission. And a very important mission it was too. She had been traipsing all over the Mountain for hours in search of her eldest brother, but he stubbornly refused to be found. She had been to his study, the throne room, the council rooms, his private quarters, the forges, the training grounds and even the baths. It stood to reason that he should be in any of those and yet there was hide nor hair to be seen of him. And Thoren, son of Thorin was not an easy dwarf to overlook in any given crowd, given his height and unruly red curls, inherited from their mother. Everywhere she asked about him she was told the same thing over and over again. Yes, he had been in today, but he'd left a while ago and really, did you not see him on your way here? It took her all her self-control not to snap that no, of course she hadn't seen him, else she wouldn't be standing here asking about his whereabouts now, would she?

'Ah, Duria!' she was hailed from across the street. A quick glance informed her that it was Thulfa, a fellow scholar and a good friend of hers. 'Any luck in locating your wayward brother?'

Duria crossed the street to meet her. 'Not as of yet,' she replied.

'You might want to consider a leash,' Thulfa suggested with a wicked grin. Serious though she was about academic matters, she was mostly a dwarf of good humour, seeing the silver lining in every cloud. It was a quality her friend both valued and resented, depending on both her mood and the occasion. With her patience rapidly running out, Duria leaned more towards the latter than the former.

Still, Thulfa's idea had its merits. 'Aye, there's a thought. No doubt it'd make a good impression if I kept the King under the Mountain on a leash. What'd the elves think?'

'They'd put it down to one more dwarvish oddity,' was the prompt reply. 'Or else they might recognise your good sense for what it is. No sense in running after him all day, is there?'

Of course, that had been what she had been doing. And on today of all days she had no patience for it. 'I presume I would waste my breath in asking if you have seen him anywhere in recent hours?' And really, she was just about ready to tear her own beard out hair by hair in frustration.

'You'd not, for I've seen him,' Thulfa replied with entirely more cheer than Duria felt appropriate for the situation. 'He was headed for his study when I saw him last, some half hour past, grumbling about letters he needed to write.'

Mahal be praised. Thoren _hated_ letter-writing, seeing as it always took up a sizeable chunk of time he'd rather spend on more enjoyable activities. If he had gone to his study for that purpose he would be at it for a good long while yet, maybe even till after midnight. According to Thoren there was no motivation like going to bed to get the letters over and done with quickly. She made a mental note to check them over discreetly before they were sent, lest they accidentally offered insult to the elves. It wouldn't be the first time that her brother with sleep on his mind would confuse the words and verbs of the slippery elvish language and write something he certainly had not intended.

 _What's the use of having children of one's own if one's siblings still need so much supervision?_ Duria thought ruefully as her feet took her in the right direction. Dari and Nari didn't need as much looking after as her own full-grown brothers and sister.

Maybe it was their mixed blood or maybe it was their blind faith that if the world came down around their ears, she would always be there to stand beside them with wise counsel to raise them up once more. Duria the Responsible Thráin had once called her in jest, but he'd had the right of it and either way it was an improvement on the Duria the Nosy theme they kept running. She'd done little else than keeping them out of trouble since the day she learned to walk. Well, it only made sense. Their parents didn't have eyes in the back of their heads after all and someone needed to make sure Thoren and Thráin and later Cathy and Jack didn't get into more trouble than they could handle. But a necessity of her childhood seemed to have grown into a full-blown occupation.

 _None of them can stand still_ , she reflected and really, it all came down to that. Thoren was in that respect the least of her worries. He may be of mixed blood, but he was a dwarf through and through: a capable king, an able warrior and a skilled craftsman. He was steadfast and reliable, save for these days when he would wake up and decide he didn't have the patience to devote himself to one occupation for a full day. Today was such a day, hence her thus far fruitless search. Still as the mountains was not a phrase one could apply to him, not by any stretch of the imagination.

Thráin was worse, far worse. He too was an able smith if he put his mind to it and his skill with weapons surpassed Thoren's by far, but only because he had so much hands-on experience. He'd been cursed with a wanderlust that was entirely alien to one of their race, always going off to distant places, bringing home all manner of strange and curious objects, often nursing injuries Duria dare not ask the cause of. Their mother had done her fair share of worrying over him when she was still alive, always claiming she owed a fair few of her grey hairs to his escapades. But then, was it strange that Thráin had turned out the way he did? Their own father had roamed around Middle Earth for long years and then he'd met their mother and had walked from the Shire to Erebor with her. Both Thorin and Catherine – or Kate, as she had preferred to be called by her kith and kin – had a history of being unable to stay in the same place. How could they possibly expect their children to be different?

Thank Mahal Jack and Cathy never felt the need to run about like the orcs were at their heels. Not that they weren't doing other things that would turn her hair grey before long, mind.

She knocked on the door of Thoren's study and, as was her wont, admitted herself before any permission had been given. After the day she'd had, she hadn't any patience left to draw from.

It was such a well-known occurrence that her brother did not even look up from his parchments when he acknowledged her presence. 'Duria.' The tone spoke volumes.

 _Yes, here comes the overbearing sister to tell you how to live your life_ , Duria thought bitterly. _Yet when their need is dire, it is to me they turn._ It appeared to be her lot in life to be the rock her siblings built on. And a pattern once formed was hard to be broken. Maker have mercy on her, but she wouldn't know where to begin either.

'You were hard to find today,' she said, cursing the words as soon as they left her mouth. She had not come here to quarrel with him and neither had she sought him out for the purpose of lecturing him.

'I did not know you had a need to or I would have made it easier on you.' Thoren sounded, for lack of a better word, weary. 'What is it?'

 _I did not come here to argue and I apologise for my tone_ , she meant to say, but being unable to speak of feelings was a fault that ran in their blood. Thoren had escaped the most of it and Cathy was not affected at all, but it was a trait the rest of them shared. 'There has been a letter from Thráin,' she said instead, pulling it out of her pocket so that Thoren could see. 'And it's urgent.' And she had spent most of her day trying to make sure it was delivered.

'Have you opened it?' Thoren asked, all business al of a sudden.

Duria shook her head. 'It's addressed to you.' And overbearing she might be and – all right, she admitted it – nosy as well, but she did not pry in the affairs of others. Knowing Thoren, he would share the contents with her anyway.

It had set her to worrying, though, for Thráin's letters were only seldom marked as urgent. Not that anyone outside the family would know of its urgency. In their youth Thoren, Thráin and Duria had developed their own secret symbols to communicate under their schoolmasters' noses. Or rather, Duria had mostly developed the system and her brothers had made use of it. Then, when the twins came along and were old enough to be sent to the classrooms, Thráin had done them the service of teaching them as well, although it had been Jack and their cousin Flói who had benefitted from it the most.

A frown wrinkled Thoren's forehead. 'The last time his message was marked as urgent he'd…'

'Gotten himself into a spot of bother in a Gondorian prison,' Duria finished. 'Don't remind me.' That had been thirty years ago and it had been a true accomplishment to get Thráin out without their parents being any the wiser. Their clever scheme had involved the employment of a lot of bribery, a case of a stolen pony and the invaluable help of Uncle "I-am-wedded-to-my-craft" Nori. That'd be the first time Duria had felt any appreciation for her uncle's chosen "craft" at all, for it had gotten her brother safely home again. 'I dread to think what he's done now.'

'We'll find out soon enough,' Thoren sighed, breaking the seal and taking in the words. And whatever words they were, they must be alarming, for within seconds his face resembled the colour of fresh milk. Duria groaned. That must be quite the scrape their brother had gotten himself into. But then, he had always been the most reckless of all of them, although there were times that Jack could give him a run for his money.

'What's he done?' she demanded, going over various rescuing scenarios already. They'd likely need Uncle Nori again. He was almost as slippery as an elf and just as reliable, but no one knew better to get out of a sticky situation than he did. And when it came to kin, he'd always be there. It didn't mean Duria was particularly fond of him, a dislike she had shared with her father. Her brothers on the other hand had always adored him.

'He'll be home soon,' Thoren replied.

Now _that_ caught her off her guard. 'He sent us a letter to tell us he'll be back soon? Why? Who's hunting him? Who do we need to fight?' Could she really be blamed for imagining the worst?

It got stranger still. 'No one.'

Any dwarf you'd bother to ask would say that Duria was not a dwarf easily silenced. She always had something to say, very much like her Uncle Dori mostly in lecturing tones. But every now and then there would be something that would take her by surprise and for a few precious moments, she'd be rendered speechless. This was such an occasion.

'Then why mark it as urgent at all?' If anything, nothing about this made any sense at all and unless it was suddenly Thráin's idea of a joke to mark a missive as urgent to wind his siblings up, there was something she had missed, the same something that had her brother resembling a corpse.

'Read it.' Thoren held the letter out to her.

When she took it, for a moment she could have sworn his fingers were shaking, but then the moment was gone and it was far more likely to think she had imagined it. After all, Thoren did not get scared, not ever.

Except maybe this once, he did. Her eyes flew over the lines, taking in the general message rather than the individual words; she hadn't the patience for that yet, not until she knew Thráin was safe. So she took in the text, longer than she had expected it to be; like Thoren, Thráin never found much use for lengthy missives when a short note could convey the same message.

Because of the way she read, the text came to her in fragments, in sentences or parts thereof that seemed to jump off the page, clamouring for her immediate attention.

_My friend tells me the shadow deepens in Mordor…_

_A storm is coming, stronger than any in living memory…_

_He tells me you should prepare for war…_

_You should prepare for war…_

_Prepare for war…_

_War._

By the time she looked up again, Duria was quite convinced her brother's facial expression was mirrored in her own. They were no children or weak-hearted men that they feared war. They were dwarves. Their people went to war when there was a need and they did so willingly. The dead fallen in battle were honoured and remembered, battle scars were seen as a source of pride.

Yet this was different. Of course Thoren had proven his mettle in battle and he had demonstrated his leadership in both the ruling of his kingdom and the commanding on the field of battle. But this was not the same. This was a darkness that went beyond the threat of orcs.

 _There may come a day, my dears, when something far more dangerous than raiding orcs will threaten this land._ Their mother's words, spoken long years ago, now resounded in her head. _And when that time comes, it will not do to try and ward off the threat on your own._

What had she known? Duria had often wondered. She knew her mother had been born in a different world, where Middle Earth was no more than an elaborate myth, a story to be told to children. It was written in a book, all the tale of her parents' quest to reclaim Erebor from Smaug. Except the real tale wasn't the book's tale. That had been her mother's doing. She knew that; it had been written in that journal they had left for their children.

Now she wondered. Had there been another story that spoke of events beyond that book, _The Hobbit_ , that Thoren had found among their possessions? It seemed a likely thing to assume. There were times when her mother had seemed to know things that no living soul could know, things of the future. But she had never explained herself; her words had always been vague and cryptic.

'She spoke of this,' Duria said, only realising that she had spoken aloud when the words had already left her mouth. ' _Amad_ , I mean. Or I think she did,' she amended, because of course Queen Kate had never said it in so many words. And foresight was not a gift to be used lightly; even a child knew that.

Thoren nodded. Uncharacteristically, his mind had arrived at that conclusion before Duria's. 'I know.' The weariness was still present, but it wasn't directed at her any longer. And Duria could taste the fear underneath.

'Did she…?' she began, well aware of how far-fetched the idea was. But she'd already begun and so there was no reason not to end the question now. She started over: 'Did she ever leave any instructions?' It would make sense, what with Thoren being the firstborn, the one destined for the throne. Surely she wouldn't leave them to fend for themselves without a clue to go on?

Thoren rubbed his temples. 'Only to find allies, to not face it alone.' He took a moment to revive the memory. 'And something about Rivendell.'

Duria frowned. 'What about it?'

Thoren shook his head. 'I can't recall.' By the look on his face his sister could tell he wished he'd paid better attention. Not that Duria was surprised. When it came to matters Thoren deemed irrelevant, his memory closely resembled a sieve.

A knock on the door disturbed them and with the long-suffering look of one who has been disturbed once too often, Thoren bid them enter.

Well, they were lucky it was only Lufur, one of the guard, whom Duria and her siblings had liked since they were very young. 'Begging your pardon, lad,' he said. 'But there's a messenger at the gate who wants to talk to the King under the Mountain.'

 _At this hour?_ The sun had set hours ago. What would a messenger be doing at the gates now? Why would any messenger wait at the gates to begin with? It surely wasn't Thráin; Lufur would have recognised him.

For some reason she had a very bad feeling about this.

* * *

 

Thoren didn't like it.

There, he'd admitted it, even if only to himself. Something about this whole setting set off his every alarm. It was very unlikely that an official messenger would have been denied the hospitality that was due to him and Thoren knew his guards well enough to know that an offer would have been made as soon as said messenger had expressed his wish to have an audience with the King under the Mountain. The offer must have been refused for reasons unknown.

The timing was strange as well. With the roads being so dangerous of late it was unwise to be out after dark, especially on one's own, as this messenger was. True, the immediate surroundings of Erebor and Dale were well-secured, but this messenger came from farther away. Maybe he was only uneasy because this unexpected visitor had come directly on the heels of Thráin's disturbing letter, but there was something else that kept demanding his attention, something warning him that there was more wrong than he could think of at this moment.

For such a late hour there was much folk around to see the spectacle. Dwarves were secretive in nature, but they could also be rather curious and this was shaping up to be a strange encounter already. No doubt, rumours would be flying before morning. And he could hear them already: the King under the Mountain summoned to his own gates as if he were some kind of errand boy. There was humiliation in that fact alone. And by the looks of some of the faces around him, that thought was on their minds. Glóin's face stood out to him in the crowd, and so did his sudden love of carrying an axe around within the gates of Erebor.

'It's not right,' he declared when Thoren greeted him and asked for him to accompany him. Most of his council were absent and he needed what few advisors that could be found on such short notice about him.

'It is not,' Thoren agreed. 'But I have a feeling this message needs to be heard.'

The contents of his brother's letter were still fresh on his mind. _He tells me you should prepare for war._ Thráin was not one easily frightened and this warning had not been given lightly. And now a suspicious visitor arrived on their doorstep on the very night that letter had been delivered. Thoren was not a superstitious soul, but he did not put much stock in coincidence either. And then there were those half-remembered warnings his mother had given him, just remarks that he had been quick to dismiss because he deemed them unimportant. He now wished he had listened more closely, that he had written them down that he might consult them. But he hadn't and now his mother was dead and buried. And there was no use in demanding answers from the dead.

'True enough,' Glóin agreed. 'But that does not make it right.' And Glóin being who he was, he wanted things done by the book, the proper way.

'Indeed,' Thoren said. 'But we do not have much choice.'

That alarmed the other dwarf. 'You know something I don't, laddie?' The endearment was an old one, dating back to when he was a child and could leave the matters of ruling a kingdom to his parents. Would that he could leave this matter to them as well, for even though he had been King under the Mountain for well over a decade, he felt this was a burden too heavy for him to carry.

'I might,' he said and left it at that. Glóin did not ask further questions.

The visitor, if such a word could be used for one who had refused hospitality, was still seated on his horse, as though he was in a hurry and were it not for the torches he might have blended in with the night. The horse was black of coat and its rider was cloaked all in that same colour. The face was hidden in the shadows of his hood and no matter how Thoren squinted, he could not make out the man's features.

'I am Thoren, son of Thorin, King under the Mountain,' he announced once he had come within hearing distance, only a few yards outside his own gate. Although he would not admit to it, he found his visitor in the possession of an unnerving presence, as if something was not at all natural about him. 'You wished to speak to me.'

The stranger did not bother with pleasantries. 'I have come on behalf of Sauron the Great, Lord of Mordor.'

It was a good thing dwarves could hide their reactions so well; had they been in a crowd of men, there would have been shocked gasps. And Thoren was shocked. Intrigued too and severely unnerved. Of course, it had long been suspected that it was Sauron who had taken up residence in Mordor, but it was another thing to hear it confirmed and yet another thing entirely to have his messenger come to Erebor as if he had a right to be treated as any other envoy. To hear that name spoken so boldly was in itself worrying. It hinted at arrogance.

'Lord of ashes and lava, if you ask me,' Glóin muttered. If he had been taken by surprise, he did not show it, other than Duria, who betrayed her shock by playing with the braids in her beard, a habit she'd had for years and they had been quite unable to break her of.

'What would Sauron want with Durin's Folk?' Thoren asked. Normally he was good at diplomacy, but this was uncharted territory for him. How did one treat with the envoy of one of the greatest forces of evil that ever plagued Middle Earth? He knew his history well, well enough to know that Sauron was no friend of any of the free folk of this world. His messenger's presence therefore was unlikely to bode well. _He tells me you should prepare for war._ War might come to them sooner than he could have possibly anticipated.

'Lord Sauron the Great wishes for your friendship,' the envoy replied. 'And, should you choose to accept it, he will give you rings for it, as he did of old.' Again, no pleasantries were uttered.

It was immediately clear that these were no ordinary rings he spoke of, but rather rings of power, as the Seven had been. It was a gift beyond imaging, for these rings had long since been lost.

'Sauron cannot offer in gift that which does not belong to him,' Thoren spoke. Once upon a time they may have been, but the Seven were heirlooms of the dwarves, theirs by right, even in the unlikely event that Sauron had managed to get his hands on the rings that had not fallen prey to dragon fire. 'These rings have been lost to time and dragon's fire. There's nothing for your lord to offer us.' His words were met with approving mutters from his own folk. Privately they might debate his right to be King under the Mountain because of who his mother was, but there was no doubt they would always support him when faced with outsiders.

'Four have been lost to dragons, it is true,' the envoy admitted. 'But the remaining three have been recovered by great effort for the sake of your people.'

Sauron had been called the Deceiver with good reason, as Thoren well knew. He'd had a history tutor, Síf, who'd made no secret of her disgust for Sauron and his ways. He must have absorbed some of it by association. The tale of the rings was well-known among his folk, for whereas men forgot, dwarves remembered. They recorded every last detail of history to pass down the generations.

'Even if that were true,' he began with all the necessary scepticism, 'your lord is not known for giving gifts without asking for something in return. What would he have of us in exchange for these rings?'

Which he insisted should be given back without payment of any sort. These heirlooms did not belong to Sauron. It was the height of arrogance to offer them as payment for services rendered. The very thought set his blood aflame. Did he think Durin's Folk were fools, so easily distracted by the promise of riches that they forgot their history? Of course, he was well aware that this was what most outsiders thought of dwarves. They only were capable of greed and anger and while that was certainly far from true, Thoren feared he was giving an exemplary demonstration of the latter.

If the envoy noted his rising temper and that of the dwarves behind Thoren, he did not show it. Instead he carried on as if truly nothing more than a question had been asked of him. 'My lord Sauron would wish to hear your knowledge of hobbits, if you would be so kind as to share it with him.'

'Hobbits?' In his surprise Thoren only managed to echo the word back at the envoy. If anything, this was not what he had expected.

'He would wish to know of what kind they are,' the messenger continued, rather misinterpreting Thoren's response. 'And where their kind dwells. For Sauron knows that one of these was known to you on a time.'

Bilbo. This was about Bilbo Baggins. It did not take a genius to work that out and it chilled Thoren to the bone, even if he could not possibly understand how the once-burglar could be of any interest to one such as Sauron. Hobbits were simple creatures. Most people took barely any notice of them, as they hardly achieved great deeds or travelled abroad. Bilbo had been the exception and Thoren happened to like him. Admittedly he had met him only once, decades ago when Thráin had gone far beyond the Misty Mountains to seek him out and, as it were, burgle the burglar to take him to see his friends.

Fortunately he had his father's good example to draw from. Thoren crossed his arms over his chest and kept his mouth shut, cloaking himself in icy disapproval. If Sauron thought it was by means of dwarvish betrayal that the evil of that Dark Lord was unleashed on the hobbits, then he was sorely mistaken indeed. It didn't even matter why Sauron wanted to know about hobbits or, as he suspected, Bilbo Baggins in particular. They were dwarves, they owed that hobbit a debt they could not ever hope to repay and they would never sell him out.

The envoy could not have missed this shift in attitude. Before now, they had been willing to at least hear him out, but that had changed as soon as he had mentioned hobbits.

And indeed he did seem to have noticed, because he lowered his voice, as if to sound particularly non-threatening. 'As a small token only of your friendship Sauron asks this: that you should find this thief,' Thoren's forehead got to frowning at this point, 'and get from him, willing or no,' and here the frown only deepened and Glóin audibly growled, 'a little ring, the least of rings, that once he stole. It is but a trifle that Sauron fancies, and an earnest of your good will. Find it, and three rings that the dwarf-sires possessed of old shall be returned to you, and the realm of Moria shall be yours forever.'

Now there was no doubt that this envoy knew nothing of dwarves at all or he would not so foolishly have invoked the name of Moria. 'That realm is not yours to give,' he replied, his hands clenched into fists. 'For it already belongs to Durin's Folk, lost though it may be. Or would you say now that it is your lord who took it from us and thus unleash the wrath of my people?' Next to him Glóin was practically shaking with rage and even Duria seemed to have lost her composure.

Yes, they may have lost their ancient realm of Khazad-dûm centuries ago and the longing to take it back had never faded entirely from Durin's Folk since, but while Durin's Bane still dwelt there, it would be a fool's errand to step foot there. It hadn't stopped Balin from wanting to go about twenty years ago, but his parents, in particular his mother, had been quick to put a stop to it. That had been one of the only times he had really seen her really get her dander up about something. Not that he had been privy to most of the row seeing as it had mostly taken place behind closed doors, but after several hours Balin left the room and Khazad-dûm wasn't mentioned again.

The envoy ignored him. 'Find only news of this thief,' he said. Thoren wondered if he was the only one who noticed that the messenger was already lessening his demands. 'Whether he still lives and where, and you shall have a great reward and lasting friendship from the Lord. Refuse, and things will not seem so well. Do you refuse?' The words ended in a low hiss that had nothing human about it.

This was insult upon insult and now threats followed in their wake. And he could contain his anger – else he wouldn't have lasted a year on the throne – but even he had his limits.

'Who are you that you dare threaten us?' he demanded. Really, his father had excelled at this kind of anger, especially when confronted with Mirkwood elves. It wasn't all that hard to imitate, especially since he meant every last word.

'You refuse then?' the envoy asked. Not for the first time Thoren desperately wished he could see his face. Surely there must be a reason why he hid it.

'You think us faithless indeed if you believed for even a moment that I would consider betraying a dear friend and a hero of Durin's Folk to Sauron the Deceiver,' he all but spat out.

There was no doubt in his mind that the hobbit the envoy had called a thief was Bilbo Baggins. The former burglar did indeed possess a magic ring that could turn him invisible, but he had gotten it off a creature called Gollum that lived under the Misty Mountains. It had not been stolen from Sauron, that he was certain of. And he found it highly suspicious that Sauron would go to such lengths for "a trifle" and go as far as to threaten them should they not comply with the demands issued. There was something more going on than he was being told and he did not like the thought of that.

'So you refuse?' the envoy asked again.

'That I do,' Thoren replied. It might not be the wisest course of action, but his honour demanded it of him. Friendship demanded it of him as well. They owed Bilbo Baggins everything. Without him his parents would have perished in Smaug's fire, Erebor would remain a dragon's lair to this very day and he would never have been born at all. And such a debt was not repaid by betrayal. After all, dwarves were loyal to a fault. 'And I order you to be gone from these lands before the sun rises. You may tell your master that he is not welcome here and if he brings war on our lands, he will live to regret it.'

Maybe he was too hot-headed, but his blood was boiling by now. Fortunately, he was not the only one. Glóin was giving the impression of wanting to plant his axe in the messenger's head and he could not fault him for that. Possibly his kinsman, Lord Dáin of the Iron Hills, would have been calmer about this, would have made him wait for a few days for an answer. He certainly would not have lost his temper like that. But Thoren was not Dáin. And in the end the outcome would have been the same, for Dáin would not have borne the insults and threats either. He feared that war had been inevitable since the moment the messenger had come to the gates.

The only response he received was another low hiss before he turned his horse and galloped away into the night. As he did, Thráin's words came back to him. _He tells me you should prepare for war._

Thoren now knew that to be true.


	4. Riddles of the Past

_Later, when I was told this account of events, I asked about the identity of this messenger, but my question was never answered, not fully. He was one of the race of Men, that most folk seem to agree on. He had the height of one for certain, which ruled out hobbits and dwarves. The stench of orcs can be smelt a mile off and according to the witnesses, aforementioned stench was not present. Of course that could still mean he was an elf. His face after all was hidden from sight by his cloak, so there was no tell-tale lack of beard or presence of pointy ears to confirm that. But his voice was in sound and intonation so like that of a man that no one seriously considered it to be one of the fairer race. At this it should be noted that I have learned that dwarves, however, do not agree with my assessment of the elves as fair._

_Whatever race the messenger belonged to, that does not truly matter in the grand scheme of things. A message was delivered and an answer given and it set in motion the events to come…_

 

It was family, be it very extended family, only in the council chambers the following morning and that was something of a relief to Jack. At least here he needn't fear the judging looks of some of the members of Thoren's council. And, being the height he was, looking as he did, he was always sure to attract attention of the unwanted kind.

'Sit down, lad, I can't see over your head,' Glóin grumbled. Of course that wasn't to say his kin would refrain from offering comment, but at least with them he didn't feel the need to plant an axe in their foreheads.

'You should walk round me then,' he retorted. 'If my height bothers you so.'

Glóin, although not close kin, still knew him well. 'No offence meant,' he said, sounding slightly insulted. He might be, but then, Jack's appearance had been a point of vexation to the youngest son of Thorin Oakenshield since he'd started shooting up. There was something distinctly unpleasant about towering over everyone else, not to mention all the times he'd hit his head because doors and ceilings were too low.

''Sides, his height's an advantage,' Flói butted in. 'Saves me from fetching a stool to reach the high shelves.'

If anything, his cousin always saw the bright side of matters, a trait Jack did decidedly _not_ share with him. 'I'm your fetcher now, am I?' he asked, vaguely amused.

'We all have our advantages,' Flói agreed. 'Yours is height.'

Jack snorted. 'And the brains, and the skills as well. Makes me wonder what I'm keeping you around for.'

Flói didn't miss a beat. 'You'd be lost without my good humour.'

He might be at that, and he had a distinct feeling that Flói knew that as well. That cheerful countenance hid a very observant and caring dwarf who'd stood guard over his mind for many decades now. Jack had enough self-knowledge to know that he was no cheerful person. He didn't laugh easily and, if left alone with his own thoughts for too long, his moods grew as black as a raven's wings. Had it not been for Flói always being there with silly jokes, drinking proposals and quite frankly ridiculous schemes, he might have drowned in them long ago. In fact, he might go as far as to count his cousin as one of the few true blessings that had been bestowed on him in life.

'Stop the frowning,' Flói counselled him. 'Almost makes me think your _adad_ 's come back to life.'

Jack would pay a fortune for that to happen. At least when his father had been alive, folk had watched their tongues. And he thought Thoren would be glad of his advice in these times as well. He hadn't been at the gates himself last night, working late at the forge to finish an axe, but the rumours were flying around the Mountain, the tale getting more fanciful by the hour. Thoren had insulted Sauron in the most colourful of language, Thoren had gone as far as to cut down the messenger's horse so that he would walk back to Mordor, Thoren had embedded an axe in the envoy's skull… Codswallop, of course. Jack knew his brother well enough to know that the worst he would have done was to give the envoy a piece of his mind in semi-polite words. He was too well behaved to do anything else. Although, having heard what the envoy of Sauron had said, Jack was quite sure he would have deserved any or all of the above.

'I'm sure you've all heard what happened yesterday.' Thoren looked tired. Like as not he had not slept a wink last night.

'It served him right.' Uncharacteristically it was Dwalin who spoke first. 'Insulting us like that.'

'He didn't really think we were going to give him Bilbo's address and point him in the right direction now, did he?' Narvi asked. Going by his tone, he meant this as a rhetorical question.

His wife obviously disagreed. 'Actually, he might,' Duria said. They all recognised that tone; she had one she reserved just for lecturing those less knowledgeable than she – about eighty-five per cent of Erebor's population – on matters they knew nothing about. It was a miracle to Jack how Narvi could stand it; he himself always zoned out when she started off like that. Come to think of it, maybe Narvi did too and that was the key to the success of the marriage. 'We've never been very open about our culture and Sauron has never been able to glean much information about us from his spies. All anyone knows, or think they know anyway, is that we are…'

'Thank you, Duria, we know.' Thank the Maker for Thráin. His brother had returned just before sunup, travel-weary and covered head to toe in mud and dust. Jack hadn't even known his brother had been on his way back. Most times he sent a letter ahead so they knew when to expect him. Maybe Thráin had been in too much haste to do so this time – his appearance spoke volumes – or maybe Thoren had forgotten to make mention of it. Under the given circumstances, who could blame him?

Duria had that look of hurt and injured pride about her, one Jack was all too familiar with. At times she'd tried to be more of a mother to him than his real _amad_ , especially in the lecturing department. None of them had liked it then and they liked it even less now. They were no longer the unruly dwarflings they had once been, but someone must have forgotten to pass that message on to their sister.

'It doesn't matter what happened last night,' Thoren said. Like as not he had anticipated the oncoming argument and decided to head it off. 'What's done is done. It's the future I'm more concerned about.'

'You're right.' That was Thráin again. He was looking uncharacteristically solemn. It was in general a look more associated with Thoren than Thráin. The former was the dutiful king, the latter the wanderer, always off on adventures of his own, not an ounce of responsibility in his body. Something dire must have happened to cause that sudden change. 'I've spent some time travelling with a friend of mine, one of the Dúnedain Rangers.' Once upon a time Thráin's unconventional friendships would have unleashed a storm of protest. It was telling that nowadays nobody even gave a visible reaction. 'He's wandered very near Mordor in recent days.'

'He must be quite mad,' Uncle Dori commented.

'More like in the employ of a wizard we know well,' Thráin corrected. 'And though I do not like him, Gandalf may be on to something. My friend says that the shadow is deepening in Mordor and there are all sorts of unsavoury characters going in through the Black Gates, and they're not coming back out again, not yet anyway. And now that Sauron has made himself known, it would be safe to assume he's amassing an army there.'

No one needed him to spell out the obvious conclusion: that Sauron, after that meeting last night, would be more than willing to test the might of his armies against the strength of Erebor.

 _Let him come_ , Jack thought. The armies of Mordor would break on the gates of the Lonely Mountain like water on the rocks.

'That's dark news,' Halin observed. He was not usually very vocal during these meetings. If anything that spoke of a sense of self-preservation. He was one of the nightmares of all of their childhoods, being the son of the insufferable Lady Nai, the dwarrowdam the late Queen under the Mountain had declared to be her arch-nemesis. Her sons by extension had been seemingly happy to carry on that feud until one day Halin and Cathy were suddenly announcing they were courting. Jack still wasn't sure how that had happened. The only think he could think of was that his twin had a temporary case of insanity, although he feared he had to amend his theory somewhat. Her insanity was entering its third decade and during that time she'd seen fit to get married to the idiot as well. The only satisfaction to be gained from that fact was that Lady Nai had been even more dismayed than Jack's own family. Well, there was always that. It didn't mean Jack had to _like_ the dwarf who'd made a waking nightmare of most of his childhood.

Thráin nodded. 'It gets worse. I fear Dol Guldur may be occupied again as well.'

For a moment you could hear a pin drop. Duria was moving her mouth, but no sound came out. Uncle Dori was mirroring her actions, be it that his face had coloured a shade of red generally found in rubies. Thoren on the other hand appeared to be choking on air.

He was however the first to find his tongue again, if not his composure. 'Tell me you did not venture there.'

Thráin shrugged. 'Very well, then I shall not tell you.'

'What in Durin's name were you thinking!' All of a sudden, it wasn't that difficult to see Thoren and Duria were related. 'You're going to get yourself killed one of these days and then what would you have me do?'

Thráin thought it best not to answer that question. 'Either way, war is coming, be it from Mordor or Dol Guldur.' To Jack it felt like he was rather stating the obvious, but then, he would do anything as well to prevent a tongue-lashing and by the looks of it, both Duria and Uncle Dori had a thing or two to say on the matter.

' _Amad_ mentioned this.' Cathy had been keeping to the background until then, but now she spoke up. 'Weeks before she died.'

Halin frowned. 'I don't understand,' he admitted. 'You always said her knowledge was of the quest for Erebor only. Did she know anything else?'

Like the rest of his siblings, Jack had thrown a fit when he learned that Cathy had shared the contents of their parents' journal with her husband, then still only her betrothed. It had felt like she had squandered her family's secrets. The real story was not something they wanted just anyone to know and there was a good reason to fear that whatever Halin knew would in time be known to that mother of his as well.

'I wonder,' Uncle Ori said. 'She used to hint at things sometimes until Gandalf…'

'Yes, what _did_ he tell her?' Given how much Uncle Dori's temper had been tried already today, it was to be considered a minor miracle he had managed to keep quiet for as long as he had. 'Because he came storming in here one day, arrogant as you like, lecturing her on Mahal knows what…'

'Because _that_ doesn't sound familiar at all,' Nori commented. Judging by his behaviour, winding his brother up never really got old. 'How did that saying go again? Something about pots and kettles, I thought?'

Oh, and there it was: the Finger. 'Now, see here…' Dori began.

'It doesn't matter what the wizard told her,' Thoren interrupted. He had that long-suffering look in his eyes of someone who had seen and heard it all many times before. Come to think of it, he had. What's more, all of them had been hearing Dori's lectures since childhood. One of Jack's favourite memories consisted of his father grabbing his uncle by the collar, depositing him outside after one particular long one. He could have sworn his father muttered 'Mahal knows how long I have wanted to do this' under his breath, although he had denied it when questioned.

In the end family meetings always turned out something like this: everyone chattering over everyone else, creating a cacophony of sound that made it difficult to hear one's own thoughts. Add to it that some of those present were not exactly close kin – like Glóin – but more like distant kin. That they had assisted Thorin on his quest must have had that effect, Jack supposed, but there were times when a smaller gathering might yield results much sooner.

'It does,' Dori insisted, very adamant that his point be made. Nothing new there either.

'No, it doesn't.' Thoren levelled a stern glare at his uncle. 'What I need to know is if there is anyone here who remembers her words at all.' Which rather implied that Thoren himself didn't.

For that matter, neither did Jack. He'd gone through a bad period at the time, when his own thoughts were so increasingly depressing to him that he had to blow off steam in one way or another. His parents had been his go-to targets.

He blamed them, Mahal knew he still did. What had they been thinking, defying all customs and traditions? Had they truly thought their love could conquer anything? Had they truly believed that because of their services to their people that Durin's Folk would be kind to them or their offspring? Well, they must have done, else why did he exist at all? Half dwarf, half man in a world that didn't know what to do with people like him. And it was only worse because he was of Durin's line, brother to the King under the Mountain. At least Thoren, Thráin and Duria looked like dwarves. He had no such luck. Neither had Cathy for that matter, but for some unfathomable reason people liked her. She always had a kind word and a ready smile that obviously worked. But Jack wasn't likeable, he was too tall to pass for a dwarf and he had a lifetime of anger constantly simmering just under the surface, always only just a second away from boiling over.

'Should I fetch my axe?' Flói inquired.

'Why?' Jack asked.

His cousin shrugged. 'Only you're scowling like there's orcs nearby.'

He snorted. 'I wish.' At least then he'd have a legitimate excuse to translate his anger into violence.

It was as if Flói had read his mind. 'We should go on a hunt later.'

'How so?' He had a feeling that Flói wasn't suggesting this because he suddenly really wanted to go on a hunt, but more for Jack's benefit, to give him an outlet and take his mind to a pleasanter place than it was now. And he did not need a babysitter. He did not need his best friend to constantly put Jack before himself. He was not a child anymore.

If Flói heard the suspicion at all, he made no mention of it. 'I feel like eating venison tonight,' he replied. 'And I'll be needing a hand to get it back here.'

Jack left it at that. They both knew it wasn't the truth, not the whole truth at least. It was what Jack needed to hear to accept that selfless idea. Had Flói been honest, his pride would have forbidden him from accepting.

Their conversation had gone mostly unnoticed. There was too much noise for anyone to hear them. When Jack focused on the meeting again, it was only to realise that no one thus far had been able to provide an answer to Thoren's questions, although it would be hard to tell so from their nattering. _Family dysfunction in action_ , Jack thought wryly.

' _Silence!_ ' Judging by the volume of Thoren's roar, he had just about enough of it as well.

The silence did indeed return.

'Thank the Maker!' Cathy exclaimed. 'I thought you'd never stop. Rivendell, that's what I've been _trying_ to tell you. _Amad_ spoke of seeking counsel in Rivendell with Lord Elrond.' She must have been attempting to make herself heard for a good long while. She wouldn't have sounded so annoyed otherwise. 'That was important, she said.'

'How do you know?' Jack was still not convinced.

Cathy smiled widely. 'Because Gandalf had forbidden her to speak of it. Said we had to figure it out on our own.' She shrugged. 'I figured that if she defied the wizard to tell me, it had to mean something.' Sweet she may be, but there was a manipulative and cunning streak there that folk would be hard-pressed to identify if they didn't know it was there already.

There was a spark of something in Thoren's eyes, recognition maybe. 'Did she say anything else?'

Cathy shook her head. 'Not much. Only that one day we would get a disturbing sort of visitor and that we should seek out Lord Elrond after. Well, and prepare for war, obviously.'

Thoren nodded. The latter was already painfully clear, but it was something of a mystery why their mother had believed the elves should be involved. Her dislike of them – Elvaethor being the exception – was something she had shared with all of Durin's Folk. What _had_ she known?

'Bilbo lives in Rivendell these days,' Thráin said. He was frowning in a way that reminded Jack very much of their father. 'Moved there years ago.'

There it was, the missing link. Of course the former burglar should be warned that he was being hunted. Pieces were slowly starting to fall into place, but he could not escape the feeling that there was still something he missed.

Thráin had no such concerns. He only grinned. 'Well, it's been a while since I've seen the other side of the Misty Mountains,' he said. 'When do I leave?'

* * *

 

She needed coffee, Beth decided when she finally found the right address. Her sense of direction left lots to be desired. Of course it really wouldn't hurt if the government invested some money in the acquisition of decent and readable signs. She'd been looking for a good twenty minutes before she found the right street and then another two before she had the right number. But here she was at last.

The door was opened by a woman in her late seventies. 'Beth Andrews?' she asked.

Beth nodded in confirmation. 'Sorry I'm late. You are Diane Parker?'

'I am. Come in, child. It looks like it might rain soon.'

The dark clouds in the sky seemed to agree with that assessment and Beth gratefully followed Mrs Parker into the house, listening with half an ear as her hostess chattered about the weather and the neighbourhood being such a maze – again, Beth was inclined to agree – and would Beth like a cup of coffee before she started? By the time they made it to the living room, she was ready to declare the woman a saint.

'Truth be told, I was surprised you called,' Mrs Parker said once she'd sat Beth down with coffee and more cookies than she should probably indulge in. Beth wasn't about to call herself fat – a healthy diet and her morning runs around the neighbourhood had made sure of that – but she gained weight very easily. It really wasn't fair; Mary could eat what she wanted and remain as thin as a stick.

'How so?' Beth asked.

'The case being so old, I didn't think anyone would remember nowadays,' Mrs Parker explained. 'I'd grown used to the idea that no one but my father was interested in it.'

Beth sipped her coffee. It tasted way better than what she made herself. 'So he was?' she asked. 'Interested, I mean.'

'It was his obsession for many years,' was the reply.

She frowned. 'Obsession?' That was a strong word to use. 'I assumed it would be just a case for him. Your father specialised in disappearances, isn't that right, Mrs Parker?'

'Diane, please,' she said. 'I am not quite that old yet. And it was a normal case to him, well, until the letters came. After that, it became something else entirely.'

'Letters?' If she wasn't careful, she would be echoing Diane's words back at her for the rest of the conversation, but this was the first thing she had heard about letters of any kind. 'What kind of letters? Demands for a ransom?'

Diane shook her head. 'It'll be easier to explain once you've read them yourself. I've brought them downstairs. My father kept all documents concerning Kate Andrews, you know. Would you like to start right away?'

She would. There was nothing like mysterious letters and the promise of a new lead to well and truly pique her curiosity. A family trait, that, and one that was hard to get rid of. Not that Beth wanted to be rid of it; in her chosen career it had served her well a good many times already. 'If it isn't too much of a bother,' she said for the sake of appearances. She did have manners. After all, how else would she teach her son his?

'None at all,' Diane assured her. 'If anything, it's nice to have someone share my interests. The grandchildren are rather tired of it.'

'So, it's an interest of you as well, then?' Beth asked.

The old lady smiled. 'I suppose so. My father talked of it so much, especially in his last days. He always felt sorry he hadn't been able to rescue her from whatever psychopath had gotten his hands on her.'

'Psychopath?' Beth nearly choked on her coffee. She had the feeling she had gone to the movies and had somehow missed the biggest plot of the whole story. In all her research, this was the first time that word had come up. The police had considered every other possibility, but not that one. 'Why would you use that word?'

'You'll know once you've read the letters,' Diane said. 'Trust me.'

The moment people uttered those two words Beth was instantly on guard. In her experience they were only used by untrustworthy people trying to get the naïve and gullible to put their faith in them. Beth had fallen into that trap exactly once and she wasn't about to do it again. _Don't be absurd_ , she told herself. _What can you have to fear from an old woman?_

'Okay.' She took another sip to buy herself some time.

As it was, she didn't need to fill the silence; Diane already did. 'I'll have to warn you, it doesn't make sense,' she said. 'Kate's own brother confirmed the letters were in her writing. Was absolutely positive about it.'

'She wrote him then?' Her grandpa had certainly never made mention of that. But then, he'd always clammed up when she tried to address the topic. Something about his conduct had always given Beth the idea that he knew more than he was letting on. What that something was, she'd never found out. Well, it was the secrecy and the repeated requests to leave the past alone that had ensured she was here today.

'She did,' Diane nodded. 'Whether or not that was of her own free will, that's up for debate.' She favoured Beth with a scrutinising look. 'Tell me, are you familiar with _The Hobbit_? By Tolkien?'

The change in subject came so unexpectedly that it took Beth a few seconds to make the leap. 'Yes,' she answered a little hesitantly. 'I don't know it well, read it a couple of years ago.' There was not much time for reading for pleasure in her day to day life, certainly not since Harry had been born and he took up so much of her time. Well, when she didn't pass him off to Mary for a sizeable chunk of time, like she had done today. All of a sudden she felt rather guilty about her own lack of mothering skills. 'May I ask what the point of this is?' she asked. It had been a rather strange question after all.

'Did you like it?' Diane seemingly had no intention to answer Beth just quite yet, which only increased her suspicion.

Reasoning that answering the questions put to her was the quickest route to an answer of her own, Beth complied. 'It won't be my favourite, but I liked it well enough, I suppose.' Which was a polite way of saying that she thought the dwarves a rather rude and complaining bunch, the hobbit a poor sod for having to put up with all of that complaining and the elves not exactly the heroes of the story either. 'But what does that have to do with Kate's disappearance?' Had it anything to do with it? One moment they had discussed letters and psychopaths, the next the topic had moved on to literature. It took a better person than Beth to see the thing that linked the two.

'You'll see,' her hostess said. She got up with some difficulty – 'These old bones aren't as young as they once were' – and moved towards the drawer in the back of the room. 'I've made copies for you,' she announced.

Beth assumed she meant the letters now, but didn't actually dare ask. She wondered whether Diane Parker's mind had started to wander in her old age, but that seemed the impolite thing to ask. 'That's kind of you,' she therefore said. At least it was neutral.

Diane looked back at her and shook her head. 'I know, child. You think I am a little strange, don't you?' There was something that almost looked like pity to Beth in her eyes and smile.

Something in that smile prompted Beth to answer honestly. 'The longer I am working on this project, the stranger it all becomes.' There was that witness account of Jeremy Grey who insisted that Kate Andrews had been whisked away in a whirlwind of some kind. Although Beth didn't really think that had happened, but it sometimes felt like it had. After all, how could there be no traces at all?

'My father thought so, too,' Diane agreed. She moved back and handed a pile of paper to Beth. 'Here, you'd better read them first. I'll explain after. Another coffee?'

Beth was about to tell her she hadn't finished this cup when on inspection it turned out she had drained it after all. 'Yes, please.' She needed her caffeine fix if she was to deal with all of these unexpected developments. She could only hope that she could make some sense of these letters.

In a way they both helped and didn't help with the making sense mission she had set herself. By the time she was done reading, about an hour and a half later, she wasn't sure which one it was. On one hand Kate's writing confirmed Jeremy Grey's account of events, but on the other hand it was just impossible. No one was dragged into famous novels and fell in love with one of the main characters. That was a teenage girl fantasy, the stuff of fairy-tales. And Beth had long since outgrown that phase.

'Ah, you're done.' Diane had settled herself in a comfortable chair with a book while Beth steadily worked her way through the pile of copies. She could still see that some of the original letters had been damaged in some way by, according to Kate herself, water and fire both. She had numbered the letters, making for far easier reading than she would have had otherwise. 'What do you make of them?'

Beth shook her head, as if the motion would help her find the word that would accurately describe what she thought. There wasn't one. 'I don't know,' she replied. 'I can't believe that it was the truth.' There were far too many things speaking against it, logic being one of them. Common sense was another. Beth prided herself in being reasonable, realistic. She based her work on facts, on hard and irrefutable evidence. Things like Kate Andrews described did not happen, not in this world.

Diane nodded. 'Neither can I. Kate's brother was convinced it was her handwriting, swore to it, but I don't think she wrote those of her own free will.'

'Someone dictated them?' Beth offered. 'And she wrote it down?'

'Convincingly, too. My father looked into other things she had written, articles, correspondence, notes, you name it. The way she would say things matched exactly. Words and phrases she'd use. Whoever took her must have known her really well to get it exactly right.'

'Or he had done his homework really well.' The whole thing made Beth slightly uneasy. How crazy did one have to be to go to such lengths to devise a scheme that no one in their senses would ever believe? And to make it sound like Kate, well, that just made the whole thing worse. Small wonder her grandfather had never wanted to talk about it; it must have been too painful. 'Or both.'

'He must have done.' Diane looked almost sad.

'Why this, though?' she wondered. 'Why this scenario? He must have known that no one would ever believe it.'

'Dear, who knows what goes on in the minds of psychopaths?' Diane asked and she made a valid point. There were things that went beyond reasonable thought. And this mystery had become a whole lot darker all of a sudden.

While the thought of what might have happened to Kate made Beth feel sick, she couldn't deny that tingling that she always felt when her case suddenly became a lot more interesting either. The mystery of it made her want to race home and get writing. Ideas were tumbling through her head, angles she could explore were taking shape.

'And there was never any sign of her, ever again?' Beth asked.

'None whatsoever,' Diane confirmed. 'There were apparently pictures as well, but they remained in Jacko's possession. My father never got access to those.'

Beth rather thought that if there had been more, her Uncle Archie might know a bit more about it. Aunt Susan didn't care one bit about family, never mind their history, so it was unlikely she had any of the material. There had been a big fight about a decade ago and after that all contact had been severed. And the lack of contact was easy to maintain, given the fact that she conveniently lived in Australia. And her own father had been the first she'd gone to ask for information when she started her investigation. That had been a disappointing conversation, as he had nothing to give her. That only left Uncle Archie. It made sense that grandpa Andrews had left whatever was left to him, him being his eldest child. Now she only had to keep her fingers crossed that he hadn't thrown it all away.

'Why did he never share them?' Beth heard herself ask.

'Well, he chose to believe the contents of the letters,' Diane answered and wasn't that a surprise. Beth's jaw wasn't quite hitting the floor, but she came close. Grandpa Andrews had never any patience for anything that even remotely sounded like fiction, but he had believed these fairy-tales? 'I suppose it was the only way he could move on with his life,' Diane added. 'When there's so little chance of seeing a loved one alive again, well, it can be tempting to believe the more pleasant alternative.'

 _That she was alive and well in another world. Because that makes perfect sense._ In Beth's opinion Patrick Miles had been the more realistic of the two of them. It was a bit uncomfortable that a perfect stranger had carried on the investigation all on his own long after the family had given up. She hoped that Kate never knew about that. _How horrible it must be to know that everyone you ever knew thinks you're dead_. A morbid thought perhaps, but given what her preferred topic for writing was, it was not that unexpected.

'I suppose,' she said, more because it was expected of her than that she actually believed it. 'Do you mind if I keep these copies?'

'Not at all.' Diane got up and retrieved a box from the same drawer the letters had come from. 'Here, you can take this as well.' When she noticed Beth's questioning glance, she added: 'Everything my father had on the case. It's of no more use to me and it seems as though you can use all the help you can get.'

There was a truth if ever she heard one. 'Thank you. Are you sure? If you've kept it that long…'

'I kept it because it meant so much to my father,' Diane explained. 'I'll only be honouring his memory by giving it to you. He'd want his work to be used, not gathering dust in an old cupboard.' She smiled ruefully. 'It's too late for Kate, but maybe what you find could at least put her to rest, don't you think?'

Beth smiled at her. 'Let's hope so.' She got up. 'I should go, but thank you very much for all of this.'

'You're most welcome.' The old lady seemed to mean every word of that. 'Feel free to call or drop by if you have any more questions.'

With a promise that she would Beth said goodbye and ventured out into the rain; Diane had certainly not been wrong with her prediction there. She had the box with old files clutched to her chest, head bowed over it. Those documents were not getting soaked on her watch.

Only when she had safely loaded it into her car and she herself was sitting behind the steering wheel, did she pull out he phone. Now that she had a lead to go on, it would be foolish to waste any more time.

'Hi, it's Beth,' she said when the phone was answered. 'Yes, I'm fine… Yes, the same with you, I hope… Well, the reason I called, would you mind if I dropped by in an hour or so?'

With the answer that her unexpected visit wouldn't be any trouble – she ignored the stab of guilt when he asked if she would bring Harry with her and she answered no; she knew she didn't excel at being a mother, but Mary had him for the day and she had a lead to follow – she started the engine. It would be worth the detour if her uncle still had those pictures.


	5. Family Relations

_It is so very tempting to write the account of events in the same style a historian might write his work and I am still not wholly convinced I am doing the right thing in deviating from my usual approach to my work, but for some reason this story will not be contained within the lines of academic work. It's too close and the memories are too intense._

_Before, back in my world, I could always keep the stories of the people I wrote about at arm's length. Don't mistake me, my mind was good at filling in the blanks and I had – still have – a vivid imagination, but I could turn it off. I could tell myself that I was only telling someone else's story – of course based in fact, because what other way was there? – and because it was not my own, I could put my work aside at the end of the day and live my life. I do not have that option this time. And since this is unlikely to get published in my world or even in this one, I can admit that it frightens me, because this was never meant to be my life._

_Of course, this book does not only contain my own memories. My tale is interwoven with the stories of the dwarvish branch of the family tree. And if I want to write down my memoirs, I cannot possibly do them justice if I did not include the events at Erebor too…_

 

He had been home for a shorter period of time than he usually was. Of course Thráin was not one for sitting still, and after a month or two the luring call of the road became too tempting to resist. Thoren knew this and, in order to keep him close for a while longer tended to send him on short diplomatic missions to Dale, Esgaroth or – fortunately just the once – Mirkwood, so that he would always be home soon before he disappeared off into the wild again. Thráin knew that Thoren knew and he would have called his brother out on it if he didn't know about the need Thoren had for people around him he could rely on. Any dwarf would keep his confidence, would go and butt heads with neighbouring councils and monarchs, but not just any dwarf was qualified enough to be privy to Thoren's innermost thoughts. Thráin, being his brother and so close to him in age at that, fitted the bill quite nicely.

'Try not to get killed,' Thoren ordered him. They were standing before the gates of Erebor, waiting until Thráin's companions had made sure they had everything they needed and that their mounts were properly saddled.

If he had been on his own, he would have been somewhere beyond Dale already. He travelled light and he travelled fast when alone. This diplomatic bunch would slow him down, but given the fact that he was an official envoy now, he could not show up in Rivendell without a retinue, never mind they served no purpose Thráin could not handle himself just as well. The burdens of being royalty had never much weighed him down. Of course he had a tendency to run whenever they threatened to do just that, which ensured they never did.

But this was different. Strider's warnings, his own experiences near Dol Guldur, the messenger at the gate and his mother's half-remembered warnings had set him on edge in a way he hadn't felt before. Something was afoot and until he knew what it was, he would not rest easy.

'I'll try not to kill my companions before we've reached Mirkwood,' he countered lightly. The mere thought of being on the road with them for months was sufficient to make him despair. That he would have to make nice with elves at the end of the road really did not bear thinking about.

'They're not all bad,' Thoren chided him.

Thráin snorted. 'I suppose I should be grateful you convinced Uncle Dori not to come.' He had read his parents' story and according to his mother he had been quite bothersome during the quest. All the signs indicated he had not changed much since then. 'Not to mention Uncle Nori.'

'The elves would instantly declare war on us when he made off with one of their heirlooms,' Thoren agreed, amused twinkle in his eyes. He became serious again. 'I did try to find people you could stand for extended periods of time.'

Thráin had to admit his brother had indeed taken care with the people he picked. Glóin and his son Gimli were present. Thráin liked the former, but the latter had a tendency to talk before he thought. He was good for laughs, though. Alfur on the other hand was a good choice. He was one of Thráin's childhood friends and possessed of good humour and an easy-going nature. Bofur had invited himself along, claiming it had been far too long since he had sampled the delights of bathing in the fountains of Rivendell and he very much liked to do it again. There had been nothing about that in any of the stories and Thráin assumed that was with good reason.

The other, larger party, that would depart at the same time, would go to Mirkwood to inform Thranduil of recent events – including the news that an uninvited guest had made himself at home in Dol Guldur – and to propose an alliance. The mere idea made bile rise in Thráin's throat, but Thoren had reasoned that they could not use their pride as a weapon to batter their foes with. Elvish swords would be of more use. And such an alliance had been made in the past; it stood to reason it could work again.

'I know,' he said, forcing his thoughts to the here and now. Thoren's decisions were his own. He was the King under the Mountain and Thráin was decidedly and blessedly not. He shied away from anything that vaguely smelled of responsibility. That his current mission had responsibility written all over it did not help matters. 'Keep an eye on Jack.'

As responsibility went, Thráin made an exception for his younger brother. All of them did. As carefree as he had been as a child, so troubled was he as an adult. The sense of not belonging increased with every passing year, darkened his eyes and soured his joy. He worked hard, but unlike his peers, gained no satisfaction from it. He did not enjoy company, detecting an insult in every casual comment. It was a miracle when someone finally coaxed a smile out of him and even then it very seldom reached his eyes. It was such a sharp contrast with the happy child Thráin remembered that it made his heart ache to look at his brother.

So they tried. They tried to involve him in the goings-on under the Mountain, they tried to persuade him to spend an evening with kith and kin, they did all they could to chase the clouds away. They had done for years now. Yet it was their cousin Flói who could boast the most success. They had always been close and what had started out as an easy friendship between children had grown into the very thing that kept Jack from drowning in his sorrows. Thráin was grateful for it, yet at the same time resented not being able to do it himself. If he could not save Jack from himself, then what kind of brother was he?

'Will do.' A shadow crossed Thoren's face, but it was gone quick enough. Thoren wasn't one for hiding what he felt in private, surrounded by those he loved, but he was a master at pretending he did not feel as burdened as he was in public. There were too many prying eyes and ears about. And if dwarves had one glaring fault, it was their curiosity rather than the greed men and elves always kept going on about. 'He has Flói.'

 _We are making do. We have been for decades._ There wasn't any other way with Jack. If there was a cure for what ailed him, Thráin had yet to find it and he searched long and hard for something, _anything_ that might help. In fact, he had half a mind to confide in Lord Elrond. As elves went, he apparently wasn't all that bad. Not that he had met the elf, but the rumours about him were persistent, so there must be some truth to them.

'Thank the Maker for that,' Thráin muttered. He would have said more, were it not that his attention was diverted by the arrival of his youngest sister. That would have been less than alarming, if not for the fact she was in travelling clothes. 'What's Cathy doing here?' There was no way he would let her tag along.

'Accompanying her husband on the trip to Mirkwood.' It didn't take a genius to conclude that Thoren wasn't necessarily any more pleased than Thráin. 'I tried to stop her, believe you me.' He held up his hands in defence. 'But when have any of us been able to make her change her mind about _anything_?' Which rather suggested Thoren had tried _very_ hard.

Thráin groaned. 'You're unleashing her on Thranduil? I thought you wanted an alliance, not an armed conflict with the elves?' For all her sweet behaviour, Cathy could be devious and manipulative. The worst about it was that no one to date had managed to stay mad at her for long. And where it came to treating with the pointy-ears, Cathy had taken their mother's example to heart. Halin at least could do diplomatic. For all that Thráin was not that fond of his brother-in-law, that he trusted him with.

'I'm hoping Halin will keep her quiet,' Thoren confessed. 'And if not he, at least Elvaethor will be there. She's always listened to him, even if she does not pay us any heed.' By the sound of it, he was rather counting on it. So, for that matter, was Thráin. Containing their sister had always been considered quite a feat. Their mother, bless her, had tried, but it hadn't helped that their father was always undermining her attempts.

'He's back in favour with our favourite elf then?' Thráin asked interestedly. Last he heard, Elvaethor had taken himself on an extended holiday to Lórien because of friction with his king. Ever since the services he had performed for Durin's Folk almost eighty years ago, things had been… difficult for him. He had stayed in Erebor for sizeable chunks of time during Thráin's childhood. He had fond memories of those days. Consequently, Elvaethor – or the Insect, as his father called him when the elf was not around to hear – was the only elf he had taken a liking to.

'For as long as it lasts,' Thoren remarked wryly. Thráin heard the unspoken wish he would be in Erebor for the trials to come. For his brother's sake, Thráin hoped the same. Thoren was a good leader, but at times he was too insecure. Not that anyone outside the family knew about this; Thoren hid it well.

'Well, I suppose he should know by now we'd never turn him away should he need a change of scenery,' he commented lightly. 'And of menu.' He'd been to Mirkwood exactly once and he had not enjoyed the endless stream of salad and other unidentified green food they had subjected him to. He had suspected it was Thranduil's idea of torture. If so, Thráin found it very effective. At the end of the meeting, two weeks later, he'd have committed a murder for a good piece of meat.

'You'll have enough of the green stuff in Rivendell,' Thoren reminded him. That realisation coaxed the first real smile of the day out of him.

'Find another reason to make me look forward to this journey, why don't you?' he grumbled. When he offered to go, he had assumed he would go alone and be back before winter. Thoren had been quick to cure him of that particular illusion. 'Maker help me if you actually ask me to seal an alliance by marriage or some other mannish scheme.'

Too late he realised he really shouldn't be putting ideas into his brother's head. 'Now that you mention it…'

'Finish that sentence and they'll be collecting your teeth all the way to Dale,' Thráin threatened. Some dwarves were made for romance and marriage. Thráin was not one of them. Marriage meant responsibility and, as previously established, he wasn't good at it. This mission was already stretching it to the very limits.

'Nah, wouldn't want any lass to put up with you.' Thoren seemed thoroughly amused now.

And that suited Thráin just fine. If he was born to make his siblings laugh, well, he wouldn't run away from such a fate. And Mahal knew Duria was good for many things, but certainly not for bits of light-heartedness.

'Oh, and here come the insults. Whatever next?'

Thoren didn't miss a beat. 'I could always send Dalin along with you.'

Thráin visibly recoiled. It was bad enough having to put up with Halin, but at least he could be reasoned with. The same could not be said for his older brother, or for his mother.

'In all seriousness, though, I wish you'd take more of an escort with you.' This point had been exhausted last night – and all of the last week in fact – already. It was the one point where Thráin had put his foot down. The larger the company, the slower the travelling. Thoren was more of the opinion that there was safety in numbers, to which Thráin had objected that more people also attracted more attention. And he wasn't exactly aiming for a fight with the goblins of the Misty Mountains. He'd been there, done that and kept the nasty scar across his torso. He could do without a repeat performance. 'I don't like this.'

'You need every able-bodied dwarf here,' Thráin said. 'Sauron is not going to let you get away with turning him down.'

Thoren snorted. 'Now you make it sound like I rejected a proposal of marriage.'

'Nice mental image. Thanks for that.'

'You're most welcome.' He studied Thráin to such an extent he began to feel slightly uncomfortable. 'I'll not be able to change your mind on this, will I?'

'I'd give it up for a lost cause,' Thráin agreed. 'Anyway, I'll be fine. The worst danger I'll be in is Gimli chatting my ears off. And that's still better than Uncle Dori lecturing until I'm ready to cut them off.' He noted the I-am-being-completely-serious-for-a-change look in his brother's eyes and decided to cut the joking short. 'I've been out in the wild on my own, remember?'

'I remember Uncle Nori had to break you out of a dungeon somewhere in Gondor once. And then we're not even talking about those scars you refuse to tell me about.' He thought for a moment. 'Or your recent venture to Dol Guldur,' he added.

 _Ah_. It was a matter of time before that would come up. 'To be perfectly honest, I didn't go in,' he admitted, which was as close as he would ever come to confessing he had been too scared to do so. 'I maintained a safe distance.'

'A measure of common sense at last?' The smile was more mocking now. 'Who'd have thought?'

'I presume you knew about it before today, else why would you send me to Rivendell?' Thráin conjured up a grin of his own.

'You know Bilbo best.' There appeared to be more truth than jest in this statement. 'Thráin, if you can, you have my permission to burgle the burglar again. I'd feel better knowing he was among people who would not sell him out to the Enemy for any reward.'

Which rather suggested he did not think much of the elves. 'I have heard the elves are quite fond of him. They will not sell him out.'

'But neither will they take part in the war,' Thoren pointed out. 'They stay out of conflict, they always do. And if Bilbo is the price they have to pay for their freedom… Can you tell me that you do not have any doubts about the steadfastness of their loyalties?'

He could not and Thoren knew this. He'd seen too much of elvish backstabbing to not have developed a healthy wariness of them and their ways. And if Sauron got wind of where the burglar had gone, he wasn't going to resign himself to not getting his hands on him.

'Point taken,' he said. 'I'll see what I can do.'

'It's all I can ask.' Thoren seemed to have slipped into very kingly solemnness just now. 'Come back as soon as you can. You are needed here.'

Thráin knew this. There would be no running off in the near future. It gave him the feeling of an animal in a cage, desperate to get out and run free. He did that most of the time, but now his duties – a word he heartily despised – were tying him firmly to Erebor. It was where they belonged and he would not have it any other way. It didn't mean he had to be pleased about it all the time.

'You won't even know I'm gone,' he promised. 'You will have enough to keep you occupied.' War was coming. He hadn't had a doubt about it since he heard about the messenger. 'Take care.' He embraced his brother to show him support in the only way he knew how to. 'I'll be back.'

Even so, he knew it would be months before he would clap eyes on him again. For some reason, it made a shiver go down his spine.

* * *

 

It took her all the self-control not to throw all caution to the wind and set off in a gallop, riding ahead of the others. Instead Cathy kept pace with them, knowing full well that such a venture would be short-lived and not worth the trouble afterwards. But it was suffocating now and then, to be the weakest one, to always be the one that needed protection and looking after. For Durin's sake, she was a grown woman, not a child.

As it was, her rebellion had been stretched to the very limits of tolerance already when she had escaped the Mountain. Thoren had not been pleased when she announced – by now she knew better than to ask, because that would be slapped down instantly – she would join the party travelling to Mirkwood. For a few moments he had been moving his mouth, but no sound had come out. Then there had been the endless stream of protests she had anticipated at length. But for once, she had kept her foot down. She was an adult. And if she was old enough to be married, she rather liked to think she was old enough to go on a short journey to Mirkwood.

At least Halin was on her side in this. He generally was, which made quite a difference from how things used to be during their childhood. Cathy still remembered all the incidents during which she had either helped to pull a prank on Halin and his brother – not that anyone had ever been able to prove she had anything to do with it – or was pranked in return. Time was that she used to hate the very sight of him, not in the least because he had the habit to parrot his mother's sentiments.

Well, until the day they bumped into one another, she had dropped a book and he had retrieved it for her before he realised who she was. Cathy still remembered the shock and almost horror in his eyes when he realised exactly who he had been nice to. At the time it felt like she had owed him some kind of debt, so she passed him a piece of rope a few days later when it was out of reach. They would be square and nothing would stop them from carrying on their little feud in peace. Or so she'd thought. Gradually it turned into a game of trying to one up the other at niceness, a sort of struggle all its own, but one that for some reason made her see his good sides. And then the niceness just never stopped. Her family wouldn't understand – his certainly wouldn't – and so she had never bothered trying to explain it all. They might think her quite insane.

'Exactly what did you threaten Thoren with that he allowed you to come?' Cathy was snapped out of her reverie by Thráin's arrival. His party would travel with hers until they reached Esgaroth, where she would turn east and he would head south towards the Old Forest Road. 'It must have been something particularly embarrassing.'

Cathy smiled. 'Wouldn't you just love to know?' she teased. When she was little, she had declared Thráin to be her favourite brother. In the years since, this had not changed much. She just despised his continuous mollycoddling.

'I'm dying to,' he corrected her.

She lowered her voice, as if she was about to impart a big secret on him. 'Well, if you must know… I threatened to expose to the population that after all these years the King under the Mountain still can't fall asleep without that stuffed bear in his bed.'

Thráin looked at her in unflattering disbelief. 'You are making that up.'

She grinned back at him. So he _hadn't_ known. 'You would wish.' She wrinkled her forehead in deep thought. 'What _did_ he call the flea-ridden thing again?'

'Teddy,' Thráin promptly replied. 'I think _amad_ suggested the name. Tell you what, he never used to go anywhere without it until he was about ten years old. After that adad said he was getting too old for it, but Thoren tended to smuggle it out under his coat half of the time anyway.' He finally looked sideways, caught Cathy's delighted smile and groaned. 'And I never should have told you any of that.'

'There is a reason you are my favourite brother,' she declared. 'Don't worry, I won't tease him too much.'

'He'll have my head for divulging this information to you,' Thráin predicted.

Cathy shrugged. 'Well, it's a good thing you won't be back for some time then.'

Not that she liked it. Thráin was forever running off to distant places. Months would go by that she wouldn't see him and yes, she missed him terribly. Thráin was the only one of her siblings who even remotely treated her like she was of age. Of course she was frail in build, but that didn't exactly mean the first drop of rain was going to kill her.

And part of the reason that it vexed her so that he was always away was that she was jealous. She envied him for being able to go out there when the fancy took him. From all his tales she knew that it could be dangerous, but that it was also very beautiful. And Cathy wanted to go and see it with her own eyes from time to time. But that was not the done thing among dwarrowdams. They did not wander unless there was a dire need, after all.

'I'll be back soon enough,' Thráin assured her. 'I'll be running for home from Rivendell before the week is out. You don't really think I could abide elves for so long, do you?'

'Depends on the elf in question,' she answered reasonably. He could pretend what he liked, but it was common knowledge Thráin was fond of Elvaethor. But then, they all were. 'Speaking of, I heard word that Elvaethor is back in the region.'

He shook his head at her. 'Am I always the one to know last?'

Cathy nodded. 'It's your lot in life. You know, if you were home more…' She trailed off, half joking, half serious. And there were so many ways that sentence could end. There was the obvious: _if you were home more, you wouldn't always be last to know_. But then there were others. _If you were home more, Jack might smile more, Thoren wouldn't be so insecure, Duria wouldn't think all the responsibility rested on her shoulder, I wouldn't feel quite so abandoned…_ It took no effort at all to think of things she could say. But rather than say them, she kept her silence and left Thráin to fill in the blank himself.

'I was born for the road,' Thráin replied airily.

She glared at him. 'That's an excuse, and you know it.' She would be hard-pressed to identify the reason for her sudden anger with him, but that did not mean she did not have a point. 'We need you every now and then as well. The road can do without you for a time, I'm sure.'

He frowned at her in complete and utter confusion. 'I am here now.'

'On your way to Rivendell,' Cathy finished.

Thráin shrugged. 'Well, someone has to go.'

She knew that. 'Yes, but why has that someone always have to be _you_?' Maybe she was being childish, but she didn't think so. There was something about this that was different. Else why would their mother have ignored the wizard's instructions entirely? And Thoren needed Thráin to help him. Thoren might not be ready to admit it, but Cathy had been blessed with a good intuition and eyes in her head. Honestly, what was it with her brothers and their thick skulls?

She left Thráin to ponder her words – and hopefully come to a sensible conclusion for once – and joined her husband. The sun was setting and Alfur had found a suitable camping spot just ahead.

'Regret joining us already?' Halin asked when he noticed her wince when she dismounted. That teasing twinkle in his eyes Cathy liked so well was firmly in place.

'I've been on a pony before,' she informed him. _Just not for quite some time._ 'Despite my brothers' best attempts to keep me away from the beasts.' And all of that because she had taken a bit of a fall when she was six years old. The way they were all treating her suggested she was made of glass. When after that eventful fall Thoren, who thought he was being all wise and grown-up, had told her as much, she had thought for two very embarrassing weeks that she indeed was, until her mother caught wind of it and rectified the error. So yes, she was not all that tall and strong, but she was flesh and blood like the rest of them.

'And you cut quite the figure on your steed.' Halin had mastered the art to navigate her moods seemingly without any effort at all. In fact, he was the only one who hadn't protested her idea to come with him to Mirkwood, probably because he knew better than to stop her by now. It was what she liked about him; she was just Cathy to him, not someone who needed to be protected at all costs.

'Ogling me, were you?' she teased. If only she had known _that_.

'I am allowed to ogle my own wife,' he pointed out. 'Unless your kingly brother has made a law against it.' He chuckled. 'Now there's a thought. Has he?'

There were days Cathy wished she had more physical strength. That way she could grab him and her siblings and bash their heads against the wall in order to knock some sense into them. For Durin's sake, they were no longer children maintaining a childish feud only because of the precedent their mothers had set. Of course it was an unquestionable fact that her mother-in-law was an old hag, but still. That old enmity was still lingering. Duria had accepted it, Thoren and Thráin were getting there, but Jack was a hopeless case. And Halin hadn't quite gotten over all his prejudices either. _All males are works in progress_ , her Aunt Thora had told her shortly after she started courting. _Some make more progress than others in their lifetimes, but the work's never finished. Having said that, your lad seems to have more potential than some of his peers that I could name._ Cathy rather thought she had the right of it.

'Not unless he has made a law against a wife ogling her husband as well,' she retorted. It was a shame he had been the one riding behind her, because he was quite good-looking, by dwarvish standards. Elves and men would find nothing attractive in his stout form, thick brown beard and slightly crooked nose. Well, that was their loss. 'And what a husband he is.'

'Would you two do all that flirting elsewhere, please?' Thráin was past the stage where he had made gagging noises when his younger sister was flirting, but it still made him visibly uncomfortable. It must be an older brother thing. Even Jack did it, although he could only boast three minutes in seniority. 'And anything else you may be up to,' he added for good measure. 'There are tents available.' He made a vague motion towards aforementioned tents behind him.

'So are the earplugs,' she countered.

He arched an eyebrow. 'Will I need them?'

Once she would have blushed as red as her hair, but fortunately she had outgrown that phase. 'Not sure yet. What'd you think, Halin? Is my brother going to need earplugs? Alfur is quite the snorer, isn't he?'

Thráin shook his head at them in what looked like fond exasperation. 'You are such a child, Cathy.'

'Takes one to know one,' she told his retreating back.

Not that anyone was in need of earplugs, as it turned out later. The night was quiet and Cathy knew better than to have at it with her husband while there were so many people around. She had a sense of decency, thank you very much. What she had with Halin was private and no matter how much flirting they did in semi-public, there was a limit. For now she had to settle for going to bed with her head on his chest and having his arms around her. As sleeping arrangements went, it could be much worse. If she was really honest, though, she much preferred a proper bed over a bedroll. That was one thing she was not going to mention. She'd had one too many comment about her ability to survive on the road from Thoren already.

Sleeping, as it turned out, was not on the agenda. Well, not for her anyway; Halin was sleeping like the dead. For Cathy there were too many noises one didn't hear in Erebor. There was the fire burning away. Of course she had a hearth, but outside it sounded different somehow. And then there were unidentified birds, the guards chatting softly – or that was what they liked to think was softly anyway – and the sounds of the ponies nearby. It was all new and wonderful. If only there was a proper bed to experience it all from.

'Who goes there?'

Halnor's demand for identification killed all the chance of sleep for the night. Cathy wouldn't say that she was curious – Thoren could lay claim to that questionable trait – but she did like to know what was going on. Mysteries were there only for the solving, else what was the point of them? And it didn't get much more mysterious than a rider in the night – she could hear the hooves of the horse now – especially given the latest nightly visitor on horseback.

The rider answered, but the reply was too soft for her to make out. There was something about the voice that rang a few bells with her, though. And because lying here wondering about it was not going to bring her any closer to an answer, she put her boots back on and grabbed Halin's cloak on the way out. It was too big for her, but that meant she could wrap it all around her to hide her state of undress. Not that any of these dwarves would look at her like that – she was married and besides, she looked too much like her mother to be considered attractive – but her brother's heart might give out.

True to expectations, Thráin was still awake, keeping guard with Gimli and Halnor. Cathy hadn't been able to hear what had been said, but she had heard enough to know that it was mostly Gimli doing the talking. He was decades older than Thráin, but had seen less of the world, which sometimes made it seem as though Thráin was the older one.

There wasn't any campfire talk going on at the moment, though. All three of the dwarves had their attention directed at the newcomer, who had dismounted and was currently embracing Thráin. It looked a bit awkward, with the rider being tall and Thráin being decidedly less so, although he was rather tall for a dwarf. It did not make sense to Cathy. Thráin was not the embracing sort of dwarf and he'd never made a secret of his disdain for elves and men, with a couple of exceptions. After all, he made strange friends on the road. This must be one of them then, a theory that was confirmed by the fact that neither of the other two had sounded the alarm.

Then the hood of their guest's cloak fell back so that the fire illuminated his bright red hair and Cathy knew who he was immediately. 'Elvaethor!' she exclaimed. This was a surprise. She set off at a brisk pace and followed her brother's example by embracing her lifelong friend and kissing him on the cheek. This last action required her standing on tiptoes; the elf really was tall.

'Had my king made mention of my favourite little lady travelling towards his kingdom, I would have set off with more haste,' he said. There was that indulgent smile she remembered so well from all the times she had begged to be allowed to ride on his shoulders when she was still little. She was still a child in his eyes, but it had never bothered her. Elvaethor was a steady rock to build on in a world that was forever changing around her, a constant in a world where people aged and died, yet he never did. There was something reassuring in that.

'No matter.' She brushed it away. 'I only convinced my brother to let me come this morning.'

'Not this brother,' Thráin mumbled sourly, which was exactly the reason she had not informed him in advance. He took in her appearance and then seemed to be choking on air.

'What?' she demanded only to realise that oh, the cloak had half fallen off her shoulders when she greeted Elvaethor and she was only wearing a longish tunic underneath.

'What in Durin's name are you wearing?' came Thráin's demand right on cue.

Well, she should have expected something like that.


	6. The Written Word

_As my investigation got ever more strange and disturbing, I must admit that there were times when I almost considered what I hadn't done before: giving up. Whatever psychopath had gotten his hands on Kate Andrews, he must have been seriously disturbed and extremely dangerous. Of course, that is what I thought then._

_My trip to Uncle Archie had proven fruitful in the end. Although he was a bit reluctant to hand the material over, I managed to appeal to his curious side and succeeded. It turned out that my grandfather had never really explained anything to him beyond the obvious that his sister had disappeared and that they didn't know all the details. For me it confirmed that he had indeed believed Kate's telling of the tale, as in so far it was her own telling. Because I still did not believe a single word of those letters. Why would I? The very notion was ludicrous. It was the sort of thing fiction was made of. No one in their right mind could believe it and those pictures and those videos? Well, that had to be one very good forgery. It was the only thing that could possibly explain all the mysteries, or so I thought. Little did I know that I was about to be set on the path of discovery to how very wrong I was. And it all began with a letter…_

 

'I'm sure I don't know what you mean.' Beth crossed her arms in front of her chest and adopted a defensive stance. Mary had asked her to sit down, but at the moment she would much rather stand on her feet; that way when things got ugly, she'd be a lot faster in getting out of this room. It was only good sense.

Mary on the other hand was sitting down. In fact, she had all but monopolised Beth's couch with the way she was draping herself all over it. Well, at least she wasn't wearing her shoes, there was that. 'I think you do.' She was giving her younger sister the Look. It was so stern it deserved capitalisation. If only she would use it more on her own son – who could benefit immensely from the delights of such a stare – and not on Beth.

'I think I don't and could you for heaven's sake get your feet off my couch? If I'm going to get Harry to do it, it doesn't help if my sister is blatantly ignoring me.' All right, she was getting annoyed, but that was only because this must be the twentieth time she asked that question. It had nothing to do with the growing sense of unease.

'Family trait, then.' The thing about Mary was that she could take everything the world threw at her completely relaxed. There were days when Beth appreciated that trait enormously, usually when her world was coming down around her and she needed someone to rely on, someone to tell her it was all going to be okay and please don't panic because that doesn't achieve a thing. But then there were days when Beth wanted to shout at someone and have them shout back, if only to know they were taking her serious. So far, Mary wasn't cooperating.

'Will you just get your feet off the couch?' Beth repeated.

Mary complied. She probably knew she didn't get to make her own point otherwise. 'It doesn't change matters.'

Beth pretended to be ignorant. 'What matters?'

'Your issues with being a mother.' It was entirely unfair Mary could accuse her like that whilst still being so very serene.

'My… I beg your pardon?'

To be fair, she had expected something more along the lines of neglecting her family a bit these past few weeks, but that was temporary. And Mary had assured her time and again she'd be happy to take Harry off her hands. She liked him and he liked her. Problem solved. It was a necessary arrangement, because being a single mother was not the easiest job in the world. She was not about to declare the situation ideal, but to go as far as to label it as her having "issues" with motherhood, that was taking things a bit far in Beth's opinion, especially since Mary hadn't exactly demonstrated superior skills in child-raising herself.

'You heard me,' Mary said.

'You are not making any sense,' Beth declared. And she wasn't.

The Look intensified. 'Yes, you do. When is the last time you had a bit of quality time with Harry?'

Beth glared at her. 'I've been busy.'

'All seven days of the week for two months now,' Mary agreed. 'And you were always busy before that too. You have been busy since the day he was born.'

Over the years she had developed an acute sense of knowing just when Mary was on her case about something and when she wasn't about to let it go. This was such a moment. Her fight-or-flight indicator was pointing right at flight. When her sister was being like this, there was no reasoning with her. She just had to have what she came for. Shame that she wasn't a child anymore. She couldn't run now like she had done then.

'Yes, because that was when my career really kicked off.' She spoke slowly as if to a child. 'You know, I am a single mother, things are tough every now and then. It doesn't mean I have _issues_.'

Mary's disbelieving look told Beth exactly how much she didn't buy that explanation. 'Then how is it that I hardly even hear him tell stories about the things the two of you do? Or why does he not know his father's name? Or…'

She waved her finger so close to Mary's face she had to look cross-eyed in order to see it properly. 'You can stop right there.' Anger welled up in less than a second. Mary had absolutely no right to bring up Harry's father, as in so far he was worthy of the title. Father was not a term that applied to a two-faced lying bastard who left her as soon as she found out she was pregnant because he was having "commitment issues." Beth hadn't so much as mentioned his name since he broke up with her.

Mary snorted and for the first time in a long while it looked like she was getting herself worked up over something. 'Okay, so you're in denial. That's fine. Or actually, it's not, because Harry's the one who suffers. He misses you, in case you haven't noticed and why would you notice if you're never there? The kid practically lives in my house. Not that Thomas is complaining, mind you, and Lily adores her big cousin, but they're not his siblings and Terrence and I are not his parents. He wants _you_!' And surprisingly it was Mary who was waving her finger in Beth's face now. 'You are obsessed with this case – any case you're working on – so here's the deal.'

 _Uh oh_. 'What deal?'

'You take at least the weekends off,' Mary announced. It sounded more like an order than a suggestion. 'Seeing as how it is Friday afternoon, the weekend starts today, so you can pick Harry up after school yourself. On school days, you can bury yourself in your work all you like, although I still don't think it's healthy the way you lose yourself in it…'

'Have you even seen the material?' Beth asked in disbelief. 'Whoever got her must have been a bloody psychopath!' It was rare for her to swear at all; it was not a habit she wanted Harry to pick up.

'Yes, and both he and Kate are dead now, so what's the hurry?' Mary countered.

'My publisher?' Beth suggested sarcastically.

'You told me exactly how long you've still got.' Mary was not convinced. 'With the speed you write, you could complete three books before then, even if you do take weekends off.'

Well, that was that excuse shot down. 'I'm on a schedule. I can't just drop everything at a moment's notice.'

Mary shrugged. 'Tough, because I am not babysitting today. I promised Thomas we'd go and see his grandparents tonight. Apparently Granny's making his favourite for dinner. You know, you could try your hand at cooking again. I remember you used to love it before you got all busy. Or, even better, involve Harry. It'll give you some time together.'

'Great, because letting a six year old peel the potatoes isn't a recipe for disaster?' If there was anything she hated, then it was Mary sticking her nose into other people's business. It was a habit she'd had since childhood and one that was proving notoriously hard to break. And Beth didn't like it when things were forced on her. At all.

But there was no reasoning with Mary once she had decided something. She left with the promise of collecting Harry on Monday and a called out wish for them to have fun. She was out the door before Beth had the opportunity to do something rash. And heaven knew she felt like doing something rash.

As it turned out, she did not have the time. Mary had chosen the time well; Beth had exactly a quarter of an hour left to get to Harry's school. Someday, hopefully someday very soon, Mary was going to pay for this, she promised herself as she grabbed her jacket on the way out. Issues with motherhood. What did Mary know anyway?

Beth suppressed the realisation that there had been a part of her had wanted to prove to that piece of garbage that she could do this on her own and that she didn't need him when she had decided to keep Harry. But that had been then. Right now Harry was her son and she loved him to bits. Although, she could admit to herself that there were times that she just didn't know how to go about being a good mum.

There wasn't much more time for reflection. She had reached her destination and before she could even so much as say hi to the other waiting parents she was all but bowled over by a small curly-haired child who threw his arms around her waist with a delighted 'Mum!' on his lips. His simple joy at seeing her made all of the guilt resurface. She had neglected her family and Mary was right: Harry had been the one to suffer because of it.

Of course it was not Harry's intention to make her feel guilty at all. He held her hand all the way home, chatting excitedly about what he'd learned and what his classmates had been up to. Beth was just listening for most of the conversation and it was with something of a shock that she realised she had never heard most of the names he mentioned. _Well, you haven't exactly been asking him about his friends, have you?_

'So, what do you like to eat for dinner?' she asked. Mary's mothering skills were not always worthy of appreciation, but Beth thought that maybe the cooking idea had not been all that bad, as long as she kept Harry away from knives and everything too hot for little fingers to touch.

For a moment he looked confused. 'Aunt Mary isn't cooking?'

Beth smiled down at him. 'Not today. It's just you and me.'

There was a part of her that feared he could be disappointed; after all, Mary had been more of a mother to him than Beth herself had been at times, but then his face lit up. 'Really?'

Beth nodded. 'Yes, really.'

Harry's face split in a wide grin that always reminded Beth of his father. Fortunately that seemed to be one of the only resemblances he had passed on. His face, eyes and hair all came from her side of the family, which made it easier to look at him. She was sure she would have loved him no matter how he looked, but all the same it was a relief not to have that little reminder looking her in the face every day.

As it turned out, there weren't that many things Harry could do in the kitchen, but he was content to watch and "inspect" her every action, all the while chattering on about his school and his friends and his aunt and uncle and cousins. It stung just that little bit to realise that he knew them better than Beth herself did, which was probably why it was a good thing she couldn't get a word in anyway.

'Is that the mail?' he suddenly asked.

Beth had been setting the plates on the table and hadn't heard a thing. 'It could be,' she said. 'They are late today. Why don't you go and check?'

She didn't need to tell him twice. Harry was off like a light and Beth smiled. When she was his age, she had been running here, there and everywhere all the time. At one point her mother had claimed that she had given up on walking altogether; she rather ran. Of course it hadn't helped that Peter, her brother, had encouraged her. She stopped running since then, but he never had. Every chance he had he ventured abroad. Last she knew he was working in Germany for a while. Well, at least it wasn't such a faraway place as South Africa, where he had spent a good two years before that.

'Look, mum, a letter!' Harry announced, holding aforementioned letter above his head for her inspection. 'And a bill and…' He studied the last envelop with a frown in his forehead.

'Another bill,' Beth concluded. 'But in a nicer envelop.'

Harry nodded. 'Ah.' He directed his attention back towards more interesting matters. 'But look, a letter!'

And so it was, handwritten too. Letters that came in through the mailbox were a rarity these days and if they were written by hand… well, that was a dying breed long before she was born. Not that Beth protested the trend. Quite the contrary, it saved her the effort of trying to decipher people's handwriting. But this script was not nearly as unreadable as that of her nearest and dearest. This was a strong, but strangely graceful sort of script, one that she thought did more belong in the nineteenth century – or earlier – than in this day and age.

If anything, her curiosity was woken. She was better at hiding her excitement than her son, but only a fool would deny that was a trait they shared. 'Well, I'd better have a look at it then.'

The paper inside the envelop was thick and covered in the same handwriting as the one on the envelop. There was something strange about it, something that she couldn't quite place her finger on until she realised that a ballpoint could never have produced such script. If anything, it looked more like someone had actually dipped a quill in an inkwell to write it. What on earth…?

_Dear Miss Andrews,_

_It has come to my attention that you have launched an investigation into the altogether mysterious disappearance of Miss Catherine Sarah Andrews in the early spring of the year 2013. I do apologise for not contacting you sooner. There is more to be known about this matter than can be found in the official documentation you currently have at your disposal and, if you would allow me, I would tell you about these matters personally. My schedule does not allow me time till after the summer, but I would like to meet with you in September. You will find the date and place below._

_Yours truly,_

_G. Grey_

For a moment Beth could only stare at the letter. Her first reaction was one of joy at having a breakthrough in her case, but it was quickly tempered with a healthy dose of suspicion. There was no address of the mysterious G. Grey on either the envelop or the letter, no way of contacting him before the date he had set.

She glanced down to take a look. Bristol, late September. To top it off nicely, he had chosen a Saturday for the meeting as well, which, as per Mary's decree, was now no longer an option for work matters. And Bristol was not exactly close. She'd probably have to stay the night if she went.

Which she planned on doing, because the name of the sender had gotten her attention. G. Grey. That was the second time that surname popped up in this investigation and Beth was a firm believer in the non-existence of coincidences. It was a Jeremy Grey who had claimed to have witnessed Kate's abduction and now a G. Grey told her he had information? It was too good an opportunity to pass up. Mary could stick that order where the sun didn't shine. Besides, she could make a weekend out of it, take Harry with her. He'd like that, an outing.

'What's in it?' he asked, looking up at her expectantly. No doubt which side of the family he had gotten that curiosity of his from. That trait was pure Andrews.

'We're going away for a weekend in September,' she announced. It was still a couple of months off, but that gave him something to look forward to. Beth knew she did.

* * *

 

King Brand had gotten old, Duria observed when he entered the gates of the Mountain. He was still walking unaided, but there were wrinkles in his face and his once dark hair had gone silver. He was only a year older than Cathy and Jack, but whereas they were still as youthful and full of energy as they had always been, men always got older faster. It was a sad realisation, Duria thought. Their lifespans were so brief. Of course there was no telling what age her siblings and she could hope to reach, what with their mixed blood, but already it was fairly obvious that they did not age as men did, although, to be fair, they had grown up at a rather mannish rate.

'Lady Duria, you look the same as ever,' Brand greeted her. The warmth in voice and eyes was something that had never changed. He pre-empted the comment she wanted to make, but could not make for honesty's sake, by saying: 'The same can't be said about me, I'm afraid.' He laughed heartily.

'You look vigorous enough,' she judged. There was truth in that. Still, it was hard to find the young boy she had known once in the face of an old man. And he may have some years to live yet. He was in his early sixties; men had been known to grow older than that. He had only been on the throne of Dale for a little over a decade. 'Good to see you again.'

'If only it could have been under happier circumstances,' Brand said.

That she could only agree with. Not two days ago Brand had sent a messenger that he too had received an envoy from Sauron. Like Thoren, he had sent the rider away, but he had been thoroughly shaken by the turn of events. In his place, she would be too. Dale was an easier target than Erebor and rumours of war had been flying before Sauron had sent his creepy envoy to their doors.

But it was not just rumour now. It had become very real and very threatening. Dwarves did not fear war and they would fight to their last breaths in defence of their halls and their people. It was as it should be, but that did not erase the sense of dread Duria felt. As dwarrowdam, there was no chance she would get anywhere near the battlefield, but she had a husband and brothers who would no doubt be right in the thick of it. She had friends and uncles and more distant kin and, if she was being entirely honest, she wanted none of them anywhere near a battle. Not that she would stop them from doing their duty; there was great dishonour in that.

'Alas, it is not to be,' she said.

'Will you join us in the talks?' he asked. 'There will be call for your wisdom, to be sure.'

Duria was not as vain as to lay claim to any wisdom, but she knew she had enough common sense to go around and there would be a need for that as well. Planning wars was a strange business. She had seen it before, the menfolk planning a campaign to rid the area of orcs. It was a strange mixture of grim determination, barely contained excitement and looming dread. This was like those times, except it was felt more keenly, because this was not just a campaign, this was a full-blown war.

'In a few moments,' she agreed. Thoren had actually asked for her help, something he did not do if he could help it. Her brother had been on edge ever since that fateful meeting and it did not help matters that both Thráin – unsurprisingly – and Cathy – surprisingly – were off on missions of their own. So much for thinking that at least her sister had some common sense. Cathy's absence was a bad thing; Thoren relied on her for keeping him smiling. Not that he would say so in so many words, but Duria had been blessed with eyes of her own and so she knew. _And I am a very poor replacement indeed._ No one ever felt the need to smile around her. Of course this did not include either her husband or her sons, but still. The point stood.

'I will see you there,' Brand nodded at her and then moved past her with his son and their hangers-on.

'Durin's beard, he's gotten old,' Jack muttered under his breath. 'When did that happen?'

'The weight of the crown is a heavy burden to bear,' Duria offered. She often saw it in Thoren's eyes, that weight of responsibility. She had seen it in their parents' before him.

Jack shook his head. 'He's a man,' he disagreed as if that was all there was to it. It sounded very dismissive, but then, Jack had been trying to reject that part of his heritage for a good many decades and it was unlikely to change now. It was ironic really, given the fact he looked so much like a man rather than a dwarf. Of course, that had been the whole point all along.

'So are you, half a man anyway,' she told him sternly, before remembering that Jack hardly needed reminding; there were always folk about who gladly did that job for her.

It didn't sit right with Duria, though. Their own mother had been one of that race Jack was always on the verge of despising and she was undeserving of such blatant disdain. Duria remembered eyes with laughter lines around them, curly hair, a wicked sense of humour and a tongue that could both heal and wound. She had made a brave choice when she chose to live her life as she had, even more so because she'd had to give up everything in order to do so. And just because Duria identified more with her father's people than she did with her mother's did not mean she had no respect for them.

'Give me another reminder, why don't you?' Jack muttered bitterly.

'I meant…' Oh, Mahal help her, she wasn't any good at this. 'I meant that I thought you used to like him.' It didn't come out quite the way she had intended, but it would have to do. As far as cheering Jack up went, Flói and Thráin were best qualified, but the latter was away to Rivendell and the former wasn't playing at being Jack's shadow like he usually was.

'I know what you meant. Forget it.'

Jack's arms were folded over his chest in a way that suggested that he was keeping the world at arm's length again. It was his armour and it kept everyone out. She had decades of trying under her belt, but she hadn't had any success breaking through yet. Oh, what she wouldn't give for some advice from Flói. Most days she found her cousin to light-hearted, too careless, but he was what Jack needed.

'He was a good friend,' her brother admitted out of nowhere. 'But how many years can he have left? Ten?'

'Might even be twenty, if he's lucky,' Duria offered, trying to be the force of optimism for just once, even if only because Jack wasn't in the mood to do so.

Jack snorted. 'And then look at us. We don't even know how old we're supposed to get.' It sounded bitter, Jack's default tone when talking about what they were. It had hurt their parents deeply the way Jack resented what they had done.

'We'll see,' Duria said. What she didn't say was that with war looming on the horizon no one should be planning too far ahead. Doubtlessly her brother knew this already.

'Only thing we can do, isn't it?'

He walked away before she had the chance to say something. Maybe that was for the best, because she had no idea what to say to him at all. What did one say to someone as bitter as Jack? It'd have to be something that at least didn't make it worse and that was hard enough on a good day. On days like these, nothing anyone said would ever make it better. _Maker give me strength._

'One of those days, eh?'

Duria turned around. 'What gave it away?'

Fíli did not deem that worthy of a reply and rightly so. Jack's entire posture screamed how depressed he was and there was no need to speak of it; it'd be like rubbing salt into an open wound, one that seemed incapable of healing no matter how much effort they made.

'You should go in,' Fíli said. Technically he was her cousin, but he was so much older than she was, so she had always seen him as more of an uncle. After all, what was one more oddity in the strange bunch that was her family anyway? 'Thoren will be needing you.'

'He'll need you just as well,' she said and now it was her turn to sound just that little bit bitter. Thoren needed her, true enough, but that didn't mean quite the same thing as wanting her there. He wanted Fíli and Thráin and Cathy and Dwalin, in short, anyone but her, because she was the bossy sister who never stopped telling him what to do. But what he needed more than any of them was their mother, or at the very least the things she had known. 'He needs guidance.'

Fíli misunderstood. 'He has it.'

Duria shook her head. 'No, the sort of guidance _amad_ could have offered,' she corrected. Thoren wasn't much of a reader, never had been, but he had been holed up in his rooms for hours at a time to read their parents' story. And then there were the hints dropped in casual conversation or she would find _The Hobbit_ and that journal suddenly lying around on his desk, almost as if he was trying to find clues in the pages for his own conduct. Thoren didn't ask for her advice, but he had studied those books religiously in search of just that.

For a moment she could have sworn Fíli's eyes darkened, but then it was gone and he just looked pensive. 'It's a double-edged blade,' he replied curtly.

'But still better than no blade at all.' It was in her nature, to find answers in dusty old tomes, in the written word. They were reliable. They were forever captured on the page, not going anywhere, always there when she had a need of them. They were guidance and she had never quite understood why her mother had experienced such hardship interpreting them. 'The way she talked at times, as if there was still some part of the future she knew of, I wonder if there is another book…' She trailed off. Duria had never been one to indulge in idle fantasies. There was no point to them. If it wasn't there, it wasn't magically going to appear, so why dwell on it? Except now the what if was going round and round in her head and she _did_ wonder. What had her mother known?

Fíli shook his head. 'She never mentioned it to me,' he answered the question she hadn't asked. 'I wouldn't have wanted to know. Ask your Uncle Ori; if she said anything, it'd be to him.'

In hindsight it was foolish to ask Fíli about the book. After all, he had been the one to suffer most because of it. Duria had never known his brother, Kíli, but she knew they had been as close as Thoren and Thráin were now, maybe even closer. And Kíli's death had been foretold in _The Hobbit_ , although in all fairness, so were Fíli's and Duria's own father's and they had survived the battle that was supposed to kill them.

'I am sorry,' she said, as was only proper. The earliest memory she had of him was that he was always so sad when he thought nobody was watching. Eventually that had changed, but this she remembered.

He shook his head. 'It doesn't matter.'

Duria thought it did, but if he did not wish to speak of it, then it was hardly her place to insist that he did. 'I just wish I could… help.' As a scholar, it was her task to find the right words, but they did not come easily today, not when she spoke of a matter that was so close to her heart. 'And Thoren seems convinced that there is another book and that will help him through this crisis.' It wasn't all that straightforward, but it came close enough. And it felt as a relief to share it with someone who understood and wouldn't judge her for it.

'Your _amad_ once said that the book was a witchcraft more foul than she had ever encountered before, that it promised foreknowledge, but never delivered.' Fíli looked at her, eyes solemn, but not unkind. 'And when it did unexpectedly deliver, it was always in such a way she could never have anticipated. It was dark, twisted and dangerous.' Something in her expression must have given her disbelief away, because he added: 'It is easy to see how the pieces fit together in hindsight, Duria.' For a moment she almost felt like a child again. 'You build your life on the knowledge contained in the old tomes, but that is knowledge of the past. You do not always wish to know what is in your future.'

He had been scarred by it, by that book that had been the reason her mother had been brought to Middle Earth in the first place. It had never been that obvious to her, and maybe it should have been. Imagination had never been her strong suit, but now she tried to imagine what it would have been like had she been in his shoes, what she would think of a book that predicted the death of one of her siblings.

Nothing.

She drew a blank. She could not imagine it. Part of her did not want to. Still she craved some sort of knowledge. She did not need it as badly as Thoren did, but then, the weight of the kingdom did not rest on her shoulders, even though there were days when it felt like it did.

Today was one such day. It felt as though all her certainties were slipping through her fingers like water. The threat was looming in the east and her family was scattered and falling apart. Thoren was burdened, more so every day, Thráin was well on his way to Rivendell, Cathy was in Mirkwood and Jack was sliding dangerously close to melancholia. As much as she may wish, she couldn't do a thing about any of the above. And it frightened her.

If she had a book that could offer her any insights in the future, she would jump at the chance, no matter what Fíli said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up tomorrow. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. If you've got the time to review, it would be much appreciated.


	7. Of Elves and Dwarves

 

_And so I was set on my path towards a discovery that I, at the time that I made it, was wholly unprepared for. Of course I was a bit suspicious after the letter, but never in a million years could I have imagined the writer turned out to be who he was. Of course, if any of you are familiar with the tale of Kate Andrews, you'll have worked it out for yourself._

_There are times when it feels as though we were all just pawns in a bigger game, deluded into thinking we were the players. Before I went on this journey, I would have sided with Duria on the matter of the book. Books are reliable, there when you need them to be. There is comfort to be found in that, a certainty that one can lean on in times of despair. My own work has always been based in fact, verifiable fact. And to reconstruct the past, such things are a necessity. But, like Fíli already knew then, to try and build a future based on a book is madness. You could sooner build a house on shifting sands and have it survive the autumn storms than you can build a better future because of one book._

_Of course, none of us knew that. After all, how could we? And so we just went about our business, blissfully ignorant of what was to come…_

 

Mirkwood was far more boring than Cathy could have anticipated. Just what it was she had been expecting when she had set out from Erebor, she couldn't quite define, but it surely wasn't this. There were all the things she had vaguely expected: the feasts, the negotiations, the entertainment that every host offered highborn guests. In this way nothing was different from how it was done at home and yet it was nothing alike as well. The elves were, for lack of a better word, reserved. They did not laugh as loudly as dwarves, nor did they anger quickly when provoked. They were perpetually calm. There were hints that stronger emotions were hiding only just beneath the surface, but they were never there, plain for all to see. It made the elves hard to read and it certainly did not make them pleasant companions. Their manners were perfect, but there was something haughty to it, as if they were looking down on their guests, as if they were not quite grounded in this world.

'You look quite bored, Lady Cathy,' an amused voice observed.

She turned around to find the one exception to the rule standing right behind her, indulgent amusement on his face.

'Elvaethor,' she acknowledged. 'I thought you were away on guard duty.' Whatever it was that he was guarding. Folk always thought of dwarves as secretive, but the elves could give the dwarves a run for their money in that department at times. And Cathy never could abide secrets she was not a part of. If that made her nosy, then so be it.

'I was relieved at dawn,' he replied. 'Won't you tell me how it has come to be that my favourite little lady is looking quite bored?'

'I can't help it; your folk are quite dull,' Cathy defended herself. And they were hostile as well. Of course they weren't openly so; it was more of an undefined feeling, intuition if you liked. It was the thing that made her skin crawl at some seemingly innocent remarks, that made her look over her shoulders in empty hallways, that made her feel like she was being watched when there was no one within her line of sight. Or maybe that was just Mirkwood's doing. There was something decidedly sinister about the forest and suddenly all her parents' stories made sense. 'And my folk aren't made for idleness.' She may look mannish, but that was not all she was. And Cathy had worked long and hard to be a seamstress in her own right. After days of not being allowed to attend the talks, her fingers were itching to find a needle and do something, anything at all.

'If that is so, then maybe I should divert you with a walk around the gardens.' He offered her his arm. 'It may not be quite the entertainment you are used to, but I shall strive to come as close as I am able.'

She took the proffered arm with a smile. 'I will settle for that, then.'

Of course, she wasn't just settling for it, she was jumping at the opportunity. Elvaethor was like a fresh breeze compared to the stifling presence of his peers. She'd never spent much time thinking about it when she was small, but Elvaethor was different, not your typical elf. For one he seemed to be more grounded, more a part of this world than the others were. He had an easy smile, a nice sense of humour and quick wits. And he was someone she could rely on, almost like an extra uncle. And over the years he had somehow become her best friend as well. And in this unnerving place, she needed her friends.

Elvaethor had not been telling a falsehood when he had said the gardens were beautiful. There was sunlight here and plantlife that didn't tower over her to obscure the skies overhead. It felt a little less like she had accidentally wandered into a prison.

'This is nice,' she concluded.

'I thought you might think so,' Elvaethor said. He was looking as smug as elves could look. 'But you'll need to thank my sister for the notion.'

'I shall.'

Tauriel was more reserved than her brother, but kind in her own way. Cathy never really got the measure of her – it was hard with elves anyway – but as elves went, she certainly was one of the good ones.

' _Amad_ never saw this place, did she?' Cathy asked. 'Else she wouldn't have been so dismissive of it.'

Elvaethor smiled. 'Alas, her only acquaintance with the palace was of the lower levels.' Which was a nice way to refer to dungeons in Cathy's opinion.

'And the wine cellar, as I hear it,' she countered lightly. There were enough dwarves still holding a grudge about the whole dungeon thing without her. And it hadn't been Elvaethor's doing anyway. 'Which makes me wonder. _Can_ elves get drunk?' She'd often wondered, for she'd never actually seen it. When elves came to call, they consumed the same amount of wine and ale as their hosts, but whereas dwarves got drunk, the elves seemed wholly unaffected.

It was testimony to how much time her friend had spent among dwarves that he threw his head back and laughed loudly, without a care for who might hear him. It was not the elvish thing to do, Cathy knew that much. 'Most certainly,' he informed her. 'Yet we do not demonstrate it as openly as men and dwarves do.'

'A sore shame,' Cathy declared. 'Well, as one cannot help but wonder, have _you_ ever been drunk?'

At this he laughed again. It was a good sort of sound. Elvaethor was a cheerful fellow, but he seldom really laughed. According to Cathy's mother, it was because Thranduil made his life hell. Cathy rather thought that there was something else, that he was still in mourning for her parents, who he had counted close friends. Losing them to old age must have hurt, and because he was unused to such hurt, being an elf and all, it must have hurt even worse. Dwarves and men at least knew they were only mortal and that their time was limited, so when the end came, they accepted it as an inevitable part of life. Elves had no such advantage.

'Why would I share information of that sort with you?'

'Ah, so you have!' she exclaimed.

'I did say no such thing,' he pointed out.

'You didn't need to.' Not that she would do anything with this information. She was just a tiny bit curious. She liked to know things. That was hardly a crime.

'You would do well in the talks,' Elvaethor observed. 'You're quicker of mind than some I know.'

 _Someone ought to tell Thoren that_. 'I'm afraid my brother is scared I'll start a war rather than prevent one,' she replied. Maybe he did know what he was about, though, because she had never liked Thranduil. He'd more or less suggested that she wasn't her father's daughter since she didn't look a bit like him when she was just a baby. Well, and with such a start it was hardy a mystery why things hadn't improved. 'I'm assuming that's why you're out here babysitting me instead of being inside with all the Important People.'

A quick shadow crossed his face. If she'd have blinked, she might have missed it altogether. 'Not quite, my little lady. It's just that my king is not as convinced of my loyalties as he once was.'

That was probably more or less true. Cathy just thought that Thranduil knew full well whose side Elvaethor was on and, since it wasn't his, had decided he didn't need anyone else to speak for the dwarves. Politics was a dirty game and Thranduil made it even more complicated and unfair than it was on its own.

And Thranduil knew just how to make one feel inferior. He knew a thing or two about punishment too. A century ago Elvaethor had been held in high esteem. He had been captain of the guard and his advice was valued by his people. Then he had chosen her parents' side in the conflict that had resulted in the Battle of the Five Armies and he had been treated like a rabid warg ever since. _I wonder what made him choose this path_ , she thought, not for the first time. _Would he still have chosen it if he knew what it would cost him beforehand? Probably; he doesn't seem to regret it._

'Well then,' she said. 'I hope you know that Erebor's gates will never be shut against you.' He probably knew that already, but it could not hurt to hear it again. After some consideration she added: 'And I think Thoren would be glad of your assistance. He needs people he can trust and now that Thráin is away to Rivendell…' She left it unfinished.

'It has been too long,' Elvaethor agreed. 'And I did promise your mother I'd keep an eye on her offspring.'

Cathy snorted at that. 'We are all of age, you know. We don't need looking after.' Although maybe Jack did. But Elvaethor was not the best person to get through to him. Thank the Maker for Flói.

This only amused her friend. 'Is that so indeed?'

'Well, I suppose it is a more worthy task than playing at guarding… something.' She could always try another time. 'You are better than that.' He was. He was too clever, too skilled. Thranduil was wasting his talents. There were few things so offensive to a dwarf as that.

'You are too kind,' he said, charming smile fixed in place.

'No, it's you that's good at kindness,' Cathy corrected. 'My family isn't that good at that.'

He let it be. 'Pray tell, what made you finally leave Erebor? I always thought your womenfolk didn't venture much abroad.'

At this she laughed. 'Well, I'm not completely dwarvish, am I? And I grew up on the tales of _amad_ and _adad_ 's adventures. Then, when he's grown up, Thráin goes and wanders around the world and brings home the stories of his adventures. And Thoren and Jack have both been on campaigns, so they have seen the world as well. Even Duria's been on a trip to the Iron Hills a few years back and she doesn't even like to travel. And they're all insisting that I should stay behind.'

And she wanted to see beyond the confines of her own kingdom. Her entire family wandered for Durin's sake. And she hadn't even mentioned Nori, who could only sit still when he was tied down with a good piece of rope and even then he'd probably escape. And of course there was Elvaethor himself, one of her dearest friends, who had told her stories of his travels since she was a tiny little lass. Of course, Mirkwood had not been her first choice of places to see, but it was what she could get and so she had jumped on the opportunity.

Her friend shook his head, clearly amused. 'You've chosen a bad time to catch the wanderlust, my little lady.'

Cathy nodded. 'War is coming. _Amad_ spoke of it. I remember that much. Of course none of us knew exactly what she meant. And now we can't ask her anymore.'

This time she was sure she saw the grief pass his face. That wound hadn't closed and she had suspected as much. Most of the time he had a tight control over his emotions and as far as she knew he had only slipped up once and she wasn't supposed to have seen him then. But she had, very shortly after her father had passed and had been buried. Elvaethor had been staying in Erebor at the time and when she had been unable to find him inside, she had at last thought to look outside. And there she had found him, in front of her parents' tomb, on his knees, tears on his face, sobs shaking his shoulders. 'Not again,' he'd said. 'Please, not again.' Deciding that this was a private moment, she had turned on her heels and left. Of course, she hadn't stopped wondering about what he had meant by 'not again,' but it wasn't her place to ask. It still wasn't.

'She always believed the wizard did,' Elvaethor replied.

Cathy had never actually spoken to him. To everyone's surprise he had made it to her mother's funeral and he had spoken to her father, her oldest brother and her sister, but she had only seen him from a distance. And she had been a tiny bit disappointed. He didn't look as formidable as she had imagined him. In fact, he really looked like a harmless old man.

'I suppose he does,' she said. 'What do you think he'll do with it then? Abduct someone else to interpret the information? Like he did with _amad_?'

'There is another book.' Elvaethor seemed pensive. 'She would not say more, dare not say more perhaps. It is possible that Gandalf knows this as well.' Now he smiled. 'She always said she'd come back from the grave and haunt him if he did to anyone what he had done to her.'

'If only,' she muttered. They could do with some of her guidance. Thoren believed it too. Else why would he always have his nose stuck in their journal these days?

But either way there was nothing either of them could do about it even if Gandalf ignored the late Queen under the Mountain's orders. And who could really know the mind of a wizard? She surely couldn't and neither could Elvaethor. And so they moved on to more pleasant topics. He showed her around the gardens and the palace and made sure she was provided with a good dinner. The talks still had not ended yet and so they were left to their own devices. Elvaethor was not due to go back on guard duty until the morning and so he kept her company.

They had just sat down for a game of cards when they were disturbed. One of the elven guards rushed in, said Elvaethor's name and then spoke a lot more words in that slippery tongue of his that Cathy, though she had tried, could never quite understand. What she did understand was that it was urgent and the news that had been given was bad, because Elvaethor instantly paled and then he turned to anger. He spoke even more rapidly than his friend.

'I beg your pardon,' he said then, when he was done talking to the elf. 'I fear I must leave you here. It appears we are under attack.'

Cathy blinked. 'Orcs?' They did not usually venture so close to settlements that were not their own. And Dol Guldur was much farther away to the south. Would they really dare to stray so far from their base?

'So it seems,' Elvaethor said. 'I must take my leave.'

'Yes, yes, of course, you must,' Cathy said, shaking herself out of her thoughts. How the orcs had come to be here hardly mattered. The main thing was to do something about them now that they were. 'Should I tell somebody, get you some more help?' There were guards and warriors aplenty at the meeting. Their skills would indeed be much use in a fight.

He smiled again, indulgently this time. 'The palace is not under attack, fear not,' he reassured her. 'Something else is.'

With that he was gone, leaving her to wonder. _Riddles and mysterie_ s, she thought. _And no one knows what it's all about_. Of course she had her own suspicions. Whatever it was that the elves were guarding, it must be important. She would wager all the riches under the Mountain on it having something to do with the war and the Enemy. That would explain the orcs' interest in it at the very least.

_If only I knew what it was._

But she did not and she spent the next few hours pacing whilst waiting for her friend. She could have done with Halin's company, but clearly the talks had not been aborted in the face of the crisis for the doors to the council rooms remained closed and she could hear the faint sound of voices through them. But there were no sounds of battle, so they must all be fairly reasonable about it.

It had gone midnight by the time the elves returned. Cathy had taken to waiting for them near the barracks, so that she'd be the first to know. She quickly took them in, looking for her friend. Elvaethor was a difficult elf to miss; his red hair made him stand out in any given crowd. She sighed in relief when she completed her examination and found him to be unharmed. _Thanks be to the Maker._

'You were victorious?' she asked.

'We were.' Though one wouldn't be able to tell it from the worried frown on his forehead.

So she asked. 'Then why the frown, my friend?'

She had half expected him not to answer, but he did. 'We have lost something of great value, my little lady. And I fear we may not succeed in recovering it.'

 _Riddles and mysteries_ , she thought again.

* * *

 

The trip through Mirkwood had taken its toll on all, Thráin knew. Though he had travelled through Thranduil's beloved woods many times before, he too had felt something. He could not define what it was, but it was dark and foreboding. It made one feel as though orcs could jump out of every shadow and every tree and it had taken all his self-control not to keep looking over his shoulders for signs of danger. He was a full-grown dwarf and he ought to be past such childish fears.

 _Dol Guldur has made you afraid_ , he told himself. _But the taint of that fortress has not spread this far north, not yet._ If unchecked, he feared that it would. Why Thranduil had not gotten off his lazy backside to address the problem yet, was something of a mystery. Then again, he had been content to leave the dragon be as well. The elf king's cowardice was old news by now. Word had it that his son had more courage, but since Thráin was not acquainted with him and in truth, had no wish to be, he did not know if there was any truth in the rumour.

Nevertheless, he was glad to leave Mirkwood behind. He had never liked travelling through it, but time was of the essence now. If he'd had more time, he would have gone around it, but time was a luxury they could ill afford. Strider's words kept bouncing around his skull. _Warn your brother he will need to prepare for war. The storm that is brewing might come to his doorstep sooner than he thought and it might prove to be stronger than any in living memory._ Then there was the news, growing ever darker. Armies in the East, a darkness in Dol Guldur and Sauron's power growing in Mordor, the hooded envoy with his treacherous words paying visits in the area. Thráin was no fool. He knew what it meant.

Fortunately Mirkwood was nothing but a dark green blur on the eastern horizon now. Thráin's small party had crossed the Anduin two days ago and their road had been steadily climbing ever since. There was comfort to be found in the mountains rising up around them, even though they were aboveground. All dwarves would prefer mountains over woods any time.

'Ah, this is good,' Alfur remarked, stretching out his limbs next to the fire they had made when darkness fell. They were reasonably sure no orcs or goblins were nearby and so Thráin had decided to take the risk. 'Rock under my feet, fire at my side, pipe in my hand…'

'And my boot up your arse if you don't shift,' Thráin finished. 'Some folk would like a place to rest their weary feet.'

Alfur laughed, but didn't move. 'You ought to be in a better temper, my friend.'

'Aye, I ought to be, in a fairer world,' Thráin agreed. 'Alas, the world is no fair place.'

'No need to tell me. A fellow can't even enjoy the simple comforts of a fire before he's threatened away.'

The remarkable thing about Alfur was that he was perpetually stuck in a good mood. Of course, many dwarves would find it hard to be out of humour if only certain conditions were met: they should be underground, devoting themselves to their chosen craft during the day and have plenty of food in their bellies and friends and family to share and enjoy it with afterwards. Simple pleasures, but they had all the makings of a good life. A shame really that Thráin never found enough rest to stay still and enjoy it with them. _My feet were made for wandering_ , he'd once told his brother, and that was all that could be said on the matter.

'Budge up, Longshanks,' said Glóin, who had no patience for bantering and who certainly had no patience to wait until Alfur did as he was told. 'There's work to be done. There's food that needs preparing and this rabbit won't cook itself.'

Alfur was unfazed in the face of so much grumpiness. 'Won't be cooked by me, either. I'd just burn it and the stink of it would bring the goblins right down on us.'

'True enough,' Halnor said. 'Then again, if we let Thráin do the cooking, the good smell would bring orcs and wargs alike to our humble camp.'

'So we ought to settle for your barely edible rabbit stew is what you're saying, yes?' Thráin mocked.

'Good thing about that is that none of us won't be eating ourselves sick with second helpings,' Alfur chimed in. He had out of self-preservation – Glóin did have an axe near at hand – finally moved his legs, but didn't give any indication he was about to volunteer for cooking duty.

'Aye, there's that,' Thráin nodded. 'Move over, I'll do it.'

'You sure you want to risk luring all the orcs in a twenty mile radius?' Halnor questioned.

'I'd choose it over vomiting up your stew for the rest of the night,' Thráin smirked.

'Then get to it, lad, before I grow old and die,' Glóin grumbled. He was a pleasant enough dwarf to be around, provided he was frequently fed and everything was done the proper way. And it _had_ been a while since lunch.

The cooking would have to wait a while, though, for at that moment Thráin heard a sound he didn't think to hear in these parts. The second he heard it, he was on his feet, sword in hand. 'Get up,' he told his companions. 'There are people coming.'

He had heard the sound of hoofs coming closer, which at least meant these folk weren't orcs. That was a small mercy only, for these days there were not many people of good will on the road, and these parts were crawling with bandits. Thráin had encountered their ilk many times before and held them in contempt, but from bitter experience he also knew not to underestimate them.

His friends had now heard it too. It did not take them long to abandon pipe and pan and grasp for sword and axe instead, for dwarves were warriors first and foremost, and these were all tested in battle. It was good to have them at his back.

'Let them come,' Gimli growled. 'We will make them taste dwarvish steel.'

That may be a tad bit overeager, but Thráin silently echoed the sentiment. They would soon set these intruders to right, sending them running for whatever safety they would be able to find in this dangerous place.

Or maybe not. Three horses rounded the corner, each of them ridden by one of the elven race. No bandits then, Thráin concluded, though he might have liked it better if they were. He had only very limited patience for the pointy-ears. That they were as arrogant as the mountains were high generally did not help matters.

'You were talking so loud, we could hear your voices from miles away,' their leader, a fair-haired elf with a bow strapped to his back, remarked. 'That is ill-advised in these parts.' He had commanded his two companions to halt with just a wave of his hand. They had the look of Mirkwood elves about them, an idea strengthened by their coming from the east, but to Thráin's disappointment neither Elvaethor nor his sister was one of them.

'Your coming here was not quiet either,' Thráin responded, fighting the urge to run the arrogant brat through with his sword. He was practically asking for it. 'And I did not ask for your opinion. Neither did I invite you to stop. Do feel free to continue your journey.'

The elf smiled. 'You must be Thráin, son of Thorin,' he said.

That caught him on the back foot and he did not like being at a disadvantage. 'So what if I am?' he demanded. Was it any wonder his parents had developed such a dislike for elves?

'You have your father's looks and bearing,' the elf replied, which in Thráin's opinion was no answer at all.

'So I have been told,' he said. 'What's it to you?'

'I knew him briefly many years ago,' the elf said.

'He made no mention of you, I'm sure.' Except maybe to throw him in with all the rest of Thranduil's folk. Elvaethor and Tauriel were the sole exceptions to the rule. What Strider saw in them, Thráin would never know.

'My name is Legolas,' the elven prince said. 'These are my companions Aennen,' he indicated the other golden-haired fool to his right, 'and Galu.' The last elf had brown hair, green eyes and a facial expression that spoke of extreme disgust for the company he had found on the road. At least the feeling was mutual.

'Aye, I've seen you before,' Glóin spoke. 'Hiding behind your father when he committed a great injustice.' Dwarves had long memories and Glóin had been there the day Thranduil had imprisoned Thráin's father and mother and all their companions.

'You are not welcome here,' Thráin said bluntly. He would not fight them, but he could not abide their presence either.

He must have spoken in a foreign tongue, for instead of moving along, Legolas dismounted and gestured for his companions to do the same. 'There is news that I carry that you will need to hear,' he said. 'It concerns a matter a mutual friend told me you were also involved in.'

Thráin merely frowned. 'I doubt you and I have any friends in common, elf.'

Thranduil's son repaid him in kind. 'Rest assured, dwarf, I've always wondered what insanity had taken ahold of his mind that he would willingly seek out your company.' He paused for a moment, allowing Thráin just enough time to send a withering glare in his direction. 'You know him by the name of Strider, I believe.'

It was old news that Strider had the blinders on where elves were concerned, so maybe it should come as no surprise he had chosen this elven princeling for his friend, but still Thráin wondered how one could be so foolish as to put up with this one. He wore arrogance like a cloak and confidence like armour.

'I know what matter you speak of,' he admitted. The whole sorry business with Gollum, naturally. That had been weeks ago and as far as Thráin knew, that creature was still languishing in Thranduil's impregnable prison. Now that the hole in their security had been plugged, escaping would be very nearly impossible.

'I would discuss it with you in private.' It was not a question. The tone spoke for itself. Legolas expected to be obliged.

 _We are princes both, but could not be more different_ , Thráin thought. 'I have no secrets from my kith and kin,' he said. 'They may hear whatever you have to say.' He trusted all of them unconditionally. He had grown up with Alfur and Halnor and had always been on the best of terms with them. Glóin and Bofur were his parents' old friends and if they had not betrayed them by now, they never would. And though he had never been friends with Gimli – he'd never had the patience for his chatter – he knew Glóin's son would never shame his confidence. If he'd had less faith in them, he would not have agreed to their presence, something Thoren had known very well.

'Very well,' Legolas said, but he was frowning. Of course that was not how it was done among his people, but Thráin did not particularly care for elvish ways to begin with. If that princeling's pride was injured, he would not have sleepless nights over it. 'Let's be seated.'

It might have been beyond him to keep his temper at being invited to sit at his own fire had Bofur at that moment not returned from relieving himself a little distance away. 'Well, bless my beard, we've got company!' Like most dwarves, Bofur distrusted elves, but he rather chose to make them uncomfortable by putting a lot of cheer on display. Being the quiet, broody type was not like him anyway.

His enthusiasm was not returned by the elves. Well, dwarves did have a reputation for being noisy and crude and blunt. _We might yet scare them off if we keep that up_ , he thought. It cheered him enough to make him forget about his intention to run the elves through with his blade.

'Your news?' Thráin asked as soon as they were all seated. The sooner he had heard it, the sooner the elves would be on their way, because they would not stay in this camp. He cared not that darkness had fallen and that it would only make sense to share this spot; he would not rest easy knowing there were elves within spitting distance.

'You are certain you do not wish to hear it in private?' Legolas asked.

Thráin fixed him with his deadliest stare. 'If you do not wish to offer insult, you will not ask this again. For we would make you answer for it.'

Judging by the look on the elf's face Thráin had just confirmed every prejudice about dwarves he'd ever harboured. If Thráin actually liked his kind, he might have cared. As it was, he didn't and he merely waited until the elf would finally – what was taking him so long anyway? – deliver the news that had brought him here.

'You know that the creature we now know as Gollum was brought to my father's realm some weeks ago?' he began.

'I was one of the two who did the bringing,' Thráin said icily. 'Do you bear news that I did not already know or not? If so, deliver it. If not, be gone.' After all, Thoren was the one who had to mind his manners. Thráin was not so burdened. He could speak his mind if he so pleased. Right now, it pleased him a lot.

Legolas continued as if he had never been interrupted at all. 'He has escaped.'

Thráin frowned. 'He has escaped? Has your father grown so careless in his security indeed? If your dungeons cannot hold your prisoners, then pray what are they even there for? Are there indeed folk who have dwelled there for more than a few weeks altogether?'

Gollum on the loose was bad news. What the creature had done or was meant to do, Thráin did not know. But he had seen the madness in those eyes and a hint of an evil that he did not fully understand. That this Gollum should not have his freedom had been clear to him. Whatever he was meant to do, Thráin never doubted that his interests were not aligned with the free folk of this world. Strider had hinted at much and had confirmed less, but Thráin had a mind of his own. He'd pieced much together by himself during the long road home again.

'It was not through a lack of watchfulness that this could have happened.' The elf's eyes betrayed his anger, even though the rest of his features were still schooled into perfect indifference. 'Though perhaps through over-kindliness.'

Glóin snorted. 'I did not know your kind could be accused of being kind,' he said. The noises around the fire indicated general agreement.

'We had not the heart to keep him in the dungeons under the earth, where we feared his heart and mind would turn to ever more dark thoughts.' There was a slight defensive tone that one could only hear if one knew how to listen for it. Fortunately Thráin had been around Elvaethor for much of his youth and had therefore an advantage most would have lacked. 'We had hope still for his cure and so we led him outside on the days with fair weather, though we guarded him well.'

Thráin listened to this with ever-growing astonishment and, unsurprisingly, anger. 'You were less kind to my father and mother when they came to your realm,' he observed.

Now he had truly vexed Legolas. 'Their imprisonment was none of my doing,' he said. 'I disapproved of it at the time, but the decision was not mine to make.' Thráin was about to make some remarks about that, but the elf was quicker. 'While it is true that I never liked your father, I did hold your mother in high esteem.'

 _And she didn't think you were entirely useless either_. His mother had always mentioned that while Thranduil was a right bloody bastard – her exact words – his son on the other had was in the possession of some decency. He had an interest in doing the right thing, she'd said. Thráin privately wondered that if this was the case, why had he stood by and let his father lock the dwarves in his dungeons?

'Carry on with your story,' he said curtly.

Legolas did, telling of how the elven guards would take Gollum out into the woods and let him climb a solitary tree so that he might feel the wind in his face, until inevitably the day had come that the creature refused to come down at dusk, leaving the elves to guard the tree itself after night had fallen. Of course that very night they were set upon by orcs and in the skirmish that followed, Gollum had gotten away. Were the elves really that bloody gullible that they had fallen for that?

'It was plain to us that the attack had been made for his rescue and that he knew of it beforehand,' Legolas concluded.

'Your doings are not as secret as they once were,' Thráin said, pushing aside his anger at the latest elvish stupidity. Maker willing, there would be time for that later. Legolas's final words had deeply worried him. If the Enemy could get a message to Gollum whilst he was under constant guard, he must have eyes and ears everywhere, even in the court of King Thranduil himself. 'You may have a spy in your midst.'

He had not expected the elf to admit to it, so he was taken by surprise when he did so. 'My father fears that as well. The reach of the Enemy grows longer with each passing day.'

 _It has not yet crossed the gates of Erebor._ Not that he knew of.

'And now Gollum has fled south. My people do not go there; they dare not stray too far from our borders and near Dol Guldur, for while it was rid of evil almost eighty years ago, dark things dwell there again.' Legolas spoke of it as though it should be news to the dwarves.

It really wasn't. 'I know of this. I ventured there myself some months ago.' _And was probably lucky to have seen the fortress and to have escaped with my life after doing so._ 'Whatever has taken up residence within its walls, it does not have our best interest at heart.'

It was against his every instinct to trade information this freely, but he remembered his conversation with Strider very well. And Legolas and his people at the very least did not support the darkness. _That is the only distinction on which anyone should make their decisions in these dark times._ Thráin was of a mind to agree with his Ranger friend on this.

 _You don't have to like him, sweetheart, as long as you can work with him._ His mother's advice sprung to mind once more. Good advice too. Thráin did not like elves and he was not likely to ever change his mind, but they had a common enemy. And they might have need of the elvish swords in the war to come. Besides, it would probably not do to undermine Thoren's attempt to create an alliance by annoying the elves unnecessarily.

There was a reluctant respect in Legolas's eyes when he realised that a dwarf had gone where an elf had not dared to tread. That it was less courage and more bloody stupidity Thráin did not tell him, naturally. 'Indeed. That is bad news.'

'Where are you headed?' he asked brusquely. He did neither want nor need the elf's praise. It was not done in service to Thranduil and his folk, so he needed no thanks. And he hadn't the patience for flattery either.

'We are making for Lord Elrond's home in Rivendell, hoping for counsel in these dark days.' The elf was quick to respond, but the one called Aennen clearly did not think this was information to be shared with dwarves; he was frowning so hard it was almost audible. 'We may need help before this is all done.'

Now it was Thráin's turn to frown, but Alfur beat him to saying what was on his mind. 'Well, you elves may have forgotten, but you've got neighbours to the east as well. And they'd be happy to lend a hand.' He grinned cheekily. 'We won't even ask to be paid for our aid.' Of all the people in the world, Alfur would be one of the few who'd even consider joking about the prejudice of dwarvish greed. And by the look of things, it was making the elves highly uncomfortable.

'Trust me, Master Dwarf, my people have not forgotten that such an alliance is possible. Surely you know that already there are gatherings to make it happen once more.' He turned his gaze back to Thráin. 'Yet you yourself are also travelling west.'

He did not like to part with this information, but felt he had little choice at this point. 'Our destinations are the same. An old friend of my family currently lives in Rivendell and we have information that is of vital importance to him.' And then there were his mother's half-remembered warnings, but that was not for Legolas and his friends to know. He had been truthful, but they did not need to know all. His mother's origins were perhaps the best-kept secret in Middle Earth, known only to a select few. From all the people gathered here, only Glóin and Bofur knew, besides Thráin himself. And he had every intention of keeping it that way.

Legolas nodded. 'I understand.'

 _Do you? I doubt it._ 'The clearing is big enough for three more bodies,' Thráin said, making a decision. Not one he liked, obviously, but someone had to make that first move. 'You can put your horses with our ponies. I do assume you brought food; we won't have enough to feed you.'

Thoren no doubt would have made a better welcome, but he had always been better at diplomacy. As long as he made his intent clear, it would have to do.

And he had. Galu's eyebrows were up there at his hairline and Aennen looked shocked as well. Of the three Legolas was the only one who managed a polite smile in response. 'That is very kind of you.'

'It is not kindness,' Thráin said. 'I won't want to waste my time having to bury you if your horses fall over the edge of a ravine in the dark.' He did not want them here and feared that he would have no peaceful sleep as long as they were near, but he was on an official mission now and his brother was attempting to get the elves on his side. Angering the elf king's only son might be counterproductive.

'Nevertheless, you have my thanks.' What was this, an elf trying to be nice?

He would have none of it. 'You can take the first watch,' he said.

_Maker be good, have I lost my wits along the road?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: visitors both expected and unexpected arrive at Erebor and Beth is in for a surprise when she goes to meet G. Grey.
> 
> Someone asked me about a list of characters to provide some clarity on who is who and I am making one. I'm just not quite sure where to post the thing, because I don't want to do it at the end of the chapter. I want to be able to add to it as the story goes on and more characters show up. So, suggestions are welcome.
> 
> And as always, thank you very much for reading this story. Reviews would be much appreciated.


	8. A Most Unexpected Plot Twist

_In the past year I have often attempted to understand the politics of the region east of the Misty Mountains, only to come to the conclusion that it is an incredibly complex situation that not even all of the main players fully comprehend. But as I understand it, this is about how it works:_

_There are two main players in the region: the King under the Mountain and the King of Mirkwood, who unfortunately don't get along. In fact, they would prefer not to have anything to do with one another, but seeing as they are the two bigwigs of their area, they don't always have a lot of choice, which creates a lot of tension on top of all the other unpleasant history elves and dwarves have with one another._

_The elves of Mirkwood, if left to their own devices, will always try to keep their interactions limited to other elves from other elvish settlements, none of which are even remotely close by. The interaction they have with the men and dwarves in the area is mainly trade-related. In times of crisis they might also work together to fight a common foe. From what I have heard this only happens when there is no other choice; the majority of orc raids have been dealt with by the combined forces of men and dwarves. As a friend told me when he explained it all to me: 'the elves hide behind their trees until it's so bad that hiding doesn't work anymore and even then they'll make sure you know they don't like working with you.'_

_Then there's the other big player, the King under the Mountain, who rules Erebor and some of the surrounding lands, mostly to the north, because the King of Dale lays claim to much of the land south of the Lonely Mountain. This King has some close ties to the Lord of the Iron Hills. Said Lord is a king in all but name, but he does answer to the King under the Mountain when push comes to shove. Not that this happens a lot, but that's the theory of the thing._

_Of the two largish mannish settlements in the area, Esgaroth is the one that deals mostly with the elves. They are independent, but much of their income depends on the trade with the elves, so while they do not call the King of Mirkwood their King – instead they have a ruler who goes by the title of Master – they often side with the elves in a conflict._

_Dale on the other hand does have a king as its ruler and they have ties of friendship with both Esgaroth and Erebor. They do have dealings with the Mirkwood elves, but not as much as their cousins of the Long Lake. There's quite a bit of history with the dwarves of Erebor, so when there's an issue, the side they will pick is most likely the dwarves'._

_That, as far as I am aware is how things work, but there are all kinds of exceptions to all kinds of rules. Fortunately it not my job to remember it all. But having tried to understand some of it, I can only feel the deepest sympathy for the dwarf whose job it was to remember all of these rules and all of the history at the meeting he had called…_

 

The last traces of summer had fled the land. The chill in the air become more pronounced with each passing day. Thoren was in a good position to judge, for he had taken to spending each morning on the mountainside in search of solitude and guidance. It did not matter if he closed the door to his study or his room, folk always barged in regardless. And thus far none of them had thought to look for him up here. Of course it would not take Duria much longer to work out where he went when he was being elusive and then this refuge would be a refuge no longer.

He pulled his cloak tighter around him, not out of necessity, but more to give his hands something to do. If he were to let them hang at his sides, they would surely tremble. That he could not afford.

'If there was ever a time when I could have used your guidance, it is today,' he said.

The statue was silent. So was the one that stood next to it, guarding the entrance to the tomb. Still, it felt better to speak to stone than to sit in a quiet room and talk to himself. Standing in front of his parents' tomb, he could at least be forgiven for talking out loud, even if they did not watch over him. Thoren liked to think that they did, but wishing things did not make them true. Else they would have returned from the land of the dead long before this day.

'I wonder if you found it just as hard to go and talk to all of them,' he went on to his mother's likeness. 'When they were all there to negotiate and you had to make them see sense. Were you just as nervous?'

He shouldn't be. Though they were no great diplomats themselves, they had trained him well. He understood how the game was played, what was expected of him. But that was all theory. It was actually doing it that robbed him of his sleep. Of course, he had been king for years, but never had so much depended on one meeting. Usually when delegates came to Erebor, it was to discuss trade or a joined campaign against raiding orcs. This time they would need to discuss war.

 _And so much time has been wasted already._ All summer messengers had gone to and fro, trying to persuade Thranduil to get off his arse and join. The elven king had been exceedingly vague when it came to promises. He had hinted at danger at his own borders – the threat of Dol Guldur was not news to Thoren – and the untrustworthiness of dwarves. After all, they had forced him into an armed conflict with the orcs before, almost eighty years ago and their reward for their service had been meagre.

It had been one of Thranduil's puppets who had been fool enough to bring those last words before the throne of Erebor and it had taken Thoren impressive strength of will to not only tell his people to sheath their blades but also to not join them in drawing steel on the envoy himself. After all, he only conveyed the words of his king; they were not his own. A good thing too, for if they had been, the dwarves of Erebor would have surely made him give answer for them and nothing Thoren would have said would have stopped them.

Eventually though Thranduil had agreed to a meeting in person. The elf and his retinue were due to arrive later today and with them came the men of the Long Lake. They had sat back and watched whilst long-distance negotiations were still ongoing, but had decided to come now that it was clear they would not offend their elvish allies and trading partners in doing so. _They were cowards long before I took the throne_ , Thoren knew. He liked the men of Dale better. King Brand at least had wasted no time in proposing an alliance to defend the area and Thoren in return had quickly extended the hospitality of the Mountain to all those who would need shelter when war did indeed come to this land. It would, he was certain, and when it did, Erebor was easier to defend than the far more vulnerable Dale.

'There you are!'

He had known that it was only a matter of time before Duria would find him and drag him back inside, but he had hoped to have a little longer before she actually did. She would accuse him of shirking his duties and of relying too heavily on the memory of their father and mother. These accusations would not be untrue, but neither would they be an accurate representation of the reality.

 _And criticising is easy when you're just stood on the side-lines._ If these talks did not go the way he needed them to go, history would not blame her, to be sure. The weight of failure would land solely on his shoulders and he was not certain he was strong enough to bear that burden.

'Yes, here I am,' he said. 'What do you want, Duria?' Maker help him if she actually mentioned anything concerning his so-called reliance on his parents.

Fortunately, she was more sensible than that. 'You are needed at the gate.'

Thoren cursed. Bloody Thranduil, showing up early and making him look the fool for being late. He ought to have expected something of the sort, yet of course he hadn't. 'Why wasn't I warned?' he demanded. _Because you had made yourself disappear and none could find you_. That would be the truth of the matter. If his frayed nerves could stand so much truth, even coming from his sister's mouth, that remained to be seen. 'I swear, he pulls something like that again, I'll run him through.'

'Aye, that'll make your list of allies painfully short, then,' Duria observed, as always the more sensible of the two of them. Thoren had at more than one occasion tried to explain to her his need of venting his frustrations without someone immediately telling him that it wasn't kingly. Even worse was when she would try to be all sensible about it. But when he had told her this, she'd only looked hurt and confused. She did not understand. She had not understood their mother either when she had done the same thing Thoren did now. To be quite honest, Thoren had not understood why she ranted in private either until a crown had been placed on his head. Then he had wished he would never have gained that insight.

He turned to her. 'Doesn't mean I can't wish for it.'

'He'll be able to tell by your face,' Duria said. 'And that won't do you any good either.' Thoren made to protest, but was not given the opportunity. 'Either way, you won't need to risk our alliance with the elves, for it's not them that'll wish to see you. There's a party coming from the east.'

East? For a moment he wondered if he had heard her right. Nothing good came from the east and southeast these days, just dark rumours and worrying tidings. He feared that the Iron Hills may already be in the thick of it. He had not heard from his kin there for some months, though they had sent word that they had received his warnings so if they were under attack, they had not been taken by surprise. There was some solace in that knowledge, but not much.

'Are we under attack?' he questioned.

Duria's face told him he was a fool for asking. 'Would I be stood here calmly if that were the case?'

 _You would be stood there calmly even if the world itself went down in dragon fire,_ Thoren thought, but did not say so. Antagonising his sister served no purpose and would eventually come back to bite him; she'd lecture him till he was ready to cut off his ears just to escape her nagging.

'Yes, you would,' he answered. 'Who's coming?'

She frowned a little, but his question overrode whatever need she had to tell him what she really thought. 'Dwarves. A small army by the looks of it.'

Thoren remembered that his mother had been fond of saying things like "what the hell" in situations such as these. He found it a very good phrase, for it described perfectly well how confused he felt.

And so he followed her back inside again, through the Mountain and down to the gates. He was not the only one making his way there; a lot of folk were in the streets and all of them only going in one direction. _The curiosity of dwarves is unparalleled in the world today_ , Elvaethor had once told him with indulgent amusement and he was very probably right. Dwarves were a curious bunch as a rule. _And then there are those who take curiosity to a whole new level, don't they, Duria?_

No one had come through the gates yet when Thoren arrived. They were all waiting outside, armed to the teeth, but weapons all sheathed. And they hailed from the Iron Hills to be sure. If their dress would not have given it away, their commander did.

'Hail, Thoren, son of Thorin, King under the Mountain!' Dáin's son Thorin had a voice that could wake the dead, and he was not afraid to use it. A handy quality in battle, no doubt, but a little inconvenient in normal conversation. It made one's ears ring and made the concept of a private conversation rather impossible.

'Hail, Thorin, son of Dáin!' he answered in a loud voice, although he could not possibly hope to match the volume. 'Your presence here is both most welcome and most unexpected.'

So it was, but dear Maker, was he glad to see his cousin's face. Little good had happened in the last months. He had no doubt that the near future would bring even more unpleasantness to his doorstep.

'We had word that the King under the Mountain told Sauron's envoy what's what,' Thorin declared. He was grinning. 'We also heard that you could expect some unpleasant company in the days to come. What kin would we be if we let such a threat to our King stand?'

'Kin that would have a care for their own home,' Thoren said. 'Surely the Enemy and his armies will not let you be.'

'They'd be fools not to,' Thorin, who had a few years ago picked up the name of Stonehelm, said. Thoren was not quite sure how he had acquired the name, but he'd heard stories. Which one of them was true, he wasn't sure; they all sounded quite far-fetched. 'Some of them Easterling armies have already threatened to come pounding at the door, but they'll be knocking long and hard ere they'll gain entrance and even if they do find a way in, they'll find nothing but death awaiting them inside.'

From experience Thoren knew that he had a taste for painting a brighter picture than was necessarily true. But he also knew that his distant cousin was a warrior, who knew what he was talking about. And the dwarves of the Iron Hills were formidable warriors. And he was not in a position to turn away help. He would have offered grave insult if he did.

And so he didn't. 'That indeed is good to hear.'

'When our King calls for aid, we will not deny him,' Stonehelm declared. Not that he was wearing a helmet at the moment. It allowed Thoren to see his eyes and the sincerity in them. It gave him a measure of peace to know that he would not be facing this conflict on his own. His kin at least was willing to stand by him.

'Be welcome in my halls,' he said.

It was all there was to be said. To have offered gratitude for their presence would have been offensive, because it would suggest he had not expected them to come in the first place. Truth be told, he hadn't, but that was another matter. His doubts were things to be entertained in private. But it would not do to send the message that he did not think people would rally behind him, for then indeed they would not. Who would follow a king who doubted his own decisions and his own worth at every turn?

'See there, good things do happen,' Duria told him a few hours later when they were waiting for the elves to arrive.

'Seems like they are few and far in between, though,' Dwalin said, saving Thoren the bother of saying it himself. 'And no good will come from those wretched woods, mark my word.'

'Save my sister, of course,' Thoren remarked. He for one would be glad to see Cathy again. He had half expected her to come home before the week was out, but she had obviously meant it when she announced she would go where her husband went. And Halin's duty had kept him in Mirkwood for all of the summer, trying to talk sense into Thranduil's ignorant head. Evidently he'd had a measure of success at least, else they would not be here.

'Save your sister,' Dwalin echoed. 'You might even get the Insect as a visitor.' Like some of the other members of the Company, and by now no one even needed to ask what company that would have been, he had never quite shaken the habit of referring to Elvaethor by his unflattering nickname. Elvaethor himself never seemed to mind, which was the only reason Thoren allowed it to continue.

'One can only hope,' he said. It was as far as he would go in admitting that he very much wished for his old friend's presence in these times of trouble.

'To lay eyes on this fabled pointy-ear would be an honour indeed,' Thorin Stonehelm declared. That he did so loudly was hardly worth noting.

'You would be wise not to offer him insult,' Thoren cautioned, detecting a slight note of mocking in his cousin's voice. 'He is an old friend of my family and truly one of the heroes of the quest.'

'Nothing was farther from my mind than to do such a thing,' Thorin guaranteed him. 'Have no fear on that account.'

'Very well,' Thoren said. 'Then I shan't fear.' _I will save my fears for the one Elvaethor still calls King._

 _Speak of the devil and he shall appear._ That was another one of his mother's old sayings and it was telling how many he remembered lately; he had indeed been dwelling in the past for too long. But there was wisdom in it, for Thranduil's party had come into view. And it was a large party. It would also include the small dwarvish party he had sent to negotiate and the men of the Long Lake. They had sent their own Master, a certain Lord Ingor, who had only recently come to power and whom Thoren had never met. All he knew was that the man's father had been an obnoxious and unpleasant fellow. Judging by the fact that the new Master had waited until the elves decided to come, this new one may not necessarily be more agreeable than the last one.

'There they are,' Duria said. Not that she needed to, but maybe it made her feel better.

'So they are.' _Let Elvaethor be among them_. He could not do a thing to sway Thranduil's mind, but having him there would made Thoren feel better. That had to count for something.

'Looks like your elf is with them,' Dwalin observed.

He'd seen it sooner than Thoren and he was right. Thranduil rode at the head of the column, but a bit further back he could see two redheads. One head belonged to his wayward sister and the other one to the one he had in his youth called Uncle Elf. The former captain of the guard had defied all tradition and instead of with his own people, had chosen to ride with the delegation from Erebor. That could not have gone over too well. Thranduil tended to tolerate Elvaethor's eccentricities as long as he didn't need to see them. Parading around with dwarves practically under his nose was something else entirely. He had never been that bold before.

There was no time to think on it.

'Hail, Thranduil, King of Mirkwood!' he called out. 'Be welcome in these halls.'

The elf king looked as if he would rather be found in a warg's den than suffer the hospitality of Durin's Folk. 'Thank you, Thoren, son of Thorin, King under the Mountain.' At least he remembered his courtesies. 'Long has it been since we last met.'

 _Through no fault of mine, I assure you._ The last time Thranduil had ventured here had been shortly after Thoren's coronation. Other than that, he had not shown his face and he had made no secret of his wish that no dwarf step foot in his halls either. Whatever trade there was between Mirkwood and Erebor went through the mannish merchants.

'Indeed it has,' he said. What else was there to say that would not result in an impromptu skirmish between elves and dwarves? 'But to fight a common foe even the greatest differences can be overcome, it seems.'

 _He's coming because he's running scared._ This useful insight had come, most surprisingly, from Jack. His youngest brother wasn't here now and maybe that was for the better, for Jack never even bothered to hide his blatant disdain for the elves and everything to do with them. But in that disdain he had made a point and the thought had not left Thoren since. Thranduil had only come because he feared he would not be able to face the threat on his own. That this was the reason would not have mattered, were it not that it frightened him. If this all fell to pieces, would the Enemy be able to pick them off one by one?

Thranduil stepped aside, which allowed Thoren to first greet the new Master – as first impressions went, he did not seem so bad – and then his own people returned home. Cathy, as ever, had no use for decorum except for when it suited her needs. Seeing as it didn't this day, she embraced him fiercely.

'I have missed you,' she announced. 'Although I have not missed that fearsome frown.'

He made a conscious effort to lessen it. 'I hear you have not started a war with the elves,' he returned. They always had a way with one another, Cathy and Thoren. Being the youngest and the eldest maybe they should not have, but it was there. His little carefree sister never failed to make him smile. For that reason alone it was good to have her back.

'Alas, they would not even permit me to sit in on the talks.' She gave him the scrutinising stare she must have copied from Duria. 'I suspect foul play was involved.'

It _had_ been him who had given instructions not to unleash Cathy on the elves. Of course, he would not be heard confessing to that. 'I am sure I do not know what you mean,' he said. He looked at Halin over his sister's head and nodded. 'Well done,' he said, and to his own surprise, he meant it. 'You have my thanks.' Cathy might actually have been on to something when she married him; he wasn't half as annoying as he had been thirty years ago and he had certainly achieved the improbable in convincing the elves to come to this gathering. _I could not have entrusted that sort of mission to Thráin or Jack._ They most certainly _would_ have started a war.

Elvaethor was next in line to be greeted and Thoren did so with undisguised pleasure. 'It is good to see you again, my friend.' Long gone were the days he had called him Uncle Elf, but that did not mean the feelings of friendship had lessened over time. 'It has been too long.'

'Quite right,' the elf said. 'I have been away for too many months.' He smiled. 'I do hope my room is still available.'

'We would not dare give it to anyone else,' Thoren assured him. 'Everything is where you left it when you last were here.' And he hoped he had not misread the words saying that he would be staying for a time.

'Good.' As always, it was hard to tell what he was thinking; the constant smile always concealed his thoughts from outsiders. 'I suspect I'll need it after this.'

 _After what exactly?_ Thoren meant to ask, but he did not get the chance to translate the thought into the spoken word. To the astonishment of everyone present the elf dropped to one knee and spoke: 'I offer my sword to the service of the King under the Mountain.'

All he could do was stare and try to stop his jaw from dropping to the floor. Of all the things he had expected to happen today, this had not been even on his list, not even at the very bottom. What happened here was unprecedented. While it was not wholly unheard of for a dwarf and an elf to have bonds of friendship, even if it was very rare, history remembered these dwarves as elf-friends. None of the elves had ever been called dwarf-friends or had indeed chosen to pledge their allegiance to Mahal's children. He had not seen it coming. He could not ever have anticipated this and words failed him.

Elvaethor looked up at him, still smiling. He even had the nerve to wink. _Trust me, I know what I am doing,_ that smile said. It was commonly known that elves were cunning and that they often chose to achieve their ends by shady backstabbing than through honest talk. Elvaethor, in the way of his people, was playing this game. _But not against me._

Thoren felt the weight of the stares on him. But there was only one course of action open to him. Even if he wanted to turn another way, he could not. And he found he did not want that in the first place.

'Rise,' he said. The silence was so absolute that he could probably have whispered and everyone would have heard him. Thoren did not whisper. 'You were always a trusted friend to Durin's Folk. Your offer is graciously accepted.' As the shocked murmurs started to fill the air, he added in softer tones: 'Would it have killed you to give us some warning?'

Elvaethor rose to his feet, towering over Thoren once more. But now, he was not smiling; he was grinning. 'As your mother used to say, where would be the fun in that?'

Somewhere from the corner of his eye, Thranduil looked like he was chewing on lemons.

* * *

 

It had been a long, long road to Bristol and Beth was honestly glad to park the car and get out of it. The air was clear, but cool and the fresh air did miracles for both her mood and her head. It wasn't quite a headache yet, but, had she been cooped up in there any longer, it would have been.

'Are we there?' Harry repeated the refrain of the day. He had started when they were only fifteen minutes away from home and had been asking the same thing at regular intervals ever since.

'Yes, we are.' Thank the Lord. 'Come on out.'

His resulting smile almost split his face in half. Yes, she had done the right thing in taking him with her. Not that Mary had not made a fuss about the whole thing. She'd given Beth one very impressive speech about the sanctity of weekends, how they weren't meant for work and that she shouldn't be dragging Harry with her.

'Well, you won't babysit him and I've only got this one opportunity, so he'll be coming with me,' Beth had said. In her mind it all made sense. This G. Grey, whoever he was, had only given her this one date and come hell or high water, she would make it to that meeting. He was the best lead she'd had in months. No, that needed correcting: he was the best lead she'd had in months that didn't sound completely nuts.

Unable to say anything against that reasoning, Mary had taken a different approach. 'You don't even know who this G. Grey is, Beth. All you have is one letter. Who even writes letters like that these days?'

'I'm fairly sure he's a man,' Beth had answered. The handwriting was certainly not female. 'And I suspect he's a relative of this Jeremy Grey fellow, you know, the one who witnessed Kate's abduction.'

Mary only frowned. 'From what I heard, your Jeremy Grey wasn't right in the head.'

'Doesn't mean his relative is mad as well.' To be honest, she didn't think he was. He had come across as coherent and even somewhat kind. It was hard to be sure from just one short letter, but that was the general feeling.

'No, he could be a psychopath for all you know.' Mary must have taken a leaf out of her dog's book. She had a bone and she was not letting it go. 'You don't have any means to contact him, you don't even know the first thing about him and you are going to meet with him in private. Where on earth has your common sense disappeared to?'

'I'm meeting him in the restaurant of the hotel I'll be staying at,' Beth replied, praying for patience. 'It will be on a Saturday, so the place will be crowded. If I don't like him, I'll be out of there before you know it. I will be perfectly safe.'

Mary still hadn't liked it, but she had let the matter drop in the end. After all, Beth was a grown woman with a mind of her own. She could go wherever she pleased. All she had demanded was that Beth called her when she arrived, after the meeting, when she left for home and when she arrived home. It had made Beth feel like a teenager with a paranoid mother all over again, but if that was the compromise she had to made, then so be it. The alternative was that Mary would be the one calling her every hour and that was decidedly not a good idea.

'Do you think you can carry your own bag?' she asked Harry.

Her son nodded enthusiastically. Mary had been right about one thing: Harry did enjoy spending time with her and being on an outing with her for a whole weekend meant that for him at least, Christmas had come early. _I should go and do something fun with him tomorrow,_ Beth thought. _With any luck I'll have something to celebrate as well._

She handed over his small overnight bag, hoisted her own over her shoulder and took the two large shopping bags containing her research on the Kate Andrews case in her hands. Maybe she was going a bit overboard – obsessed was the word Mary would have used if she had been able to see her now – but she wanted G. Grey's opinion on the material that was available. If anything, she was in dire need of a new perspective.

Harry alternated between skipping and full-out running when they made their way from the car park to the entrance of the hotel, brown curls bouncing with every step. He, unlike Beth, had been able to sleep in the car – in between his are-we-there-yet sessions – and he was well rested, bursting with energy the way only children could. Beth followed at a slightly slower pace.

The reception area was quiet and from the looks of things the young woman manning said reception was seriously bored.

'Afternoon,' Beth said, forcing the girl to look up from whatever it was that she was doing, polishing her nails if she'd seen right.

'Afternoon,' she echoed. 'How can I help you?' The words sounded both well-rehearsed and disinterested. The quick glance over Beth's shoulder to the clock on the wall betrayed that Jenny – according to her name badge – was counting the minutes to the end of her shift.

Beth ignored the rudeness. 'I have a reservation in the name of Andrews.'

Jenny went through her information and then nodded. 'Elizabeth Andrews, with a child, one night?'

Beth nodded. 'That's correct.' Well, at least this was smooth sailing, she thought as she filled in the necessary paperwork and was given the key to the room in return. _Although this place won't be getting any points for friendly staff._

'Wait a minute,' Jenny said when she turned away.

'Beg pardon?' Beth asked.

'There's a package that came in for a Miss Andrews yesterday. "To be delivered upon her arrival" it says.' Jenny reached down below the counter and came up with what appeared to be a wooden box with a note taped to the lid.

'I wasn't expecting anything,' Beth said. Speaking of an unexpected turn of events. G. Grey's doing maybe? Then again, she was meeting him in two hours. What would he gain by sending her a box that he could give to her in person a few hours later? Stranger and stranger. This case was already the most bizarre one she'd ever tackled and the longer she was working on it, the weirder it became.

'Well, I won't be taking it back or I'll have the manager on my case.' Jenny practically shoved the box into Beth's hands and then demonstratively hid her own under the counter so Beth could not return the favour. 'Your problem now.'

Beth did not think of herself as one of those people who complained about personnel when they were rude to her, but she was contemplating changing that habit now. Spoiled brat. _See if I ever come here again._

She turned, put the box in the shopping bag on top of the documents and headed over to the lift, Harry next to her. He was trying to peek into the bag to get a better look at the box.

'Later,' she promised. 'When we're in the room.' Truth was, she did want to know what was inside, but she was not a little girl anymore that she couldn't wait until she was alone before she tore the wrapping paper off a present.

Harry's well of patience was decidedly less deep. He kept fussing, moving his weight from one foot to the other and back again. Fortunately the elevator ride was mercifully short and their room was just across the corridor. And Beth was glad to have a place to put the bags down, because they were heavy. _Well, you shouldn't have taken all those documents with you then._

'Can we look now?' Harry begged.

Much as she wanted to, there was something else she had to do first. 'Let's call Aunt Mary first, so she knows we've arrived safely.' _And so she knows we haven't been abducted by psychopaths._ 'Sorry, lad, but I don't want her to worry.' Because when Mary worried, she called the police. And that would be more than just a little embarrassing.

Harry looked disappointed and he rolled his eyes, something he must have learned from Thomas. But he sighed and sat down. That, Beth was sure, was something his cousin most certainly would not have done.

Mary answered after the first ring. 'You've arrived then?'

'No, I've been abducted by aliens and am now looking down on Earth from Mars,' Beth replied sarcastically. 'Did you know these aliens are actually green?'

Mary muttered something unintelligible. 'You are hilarious, you are. You're both fine then?'

Beth snorted. 'Yes, mum.' She shot a stern look at Harry, who had made good use of her distraction by lifting the box from the bag. He caught her staring and quickly set the box down in his lap, hands folded across his chest to show her he wasn't going to open it. _You sneaky little so-and-so._ 'But someone did deliver a very strange wooden box to the reception. Apparently it's for me.'

She could practically hear Mary frown. 'First a letter and now a wooden box?'

'I know, what will they think of next?' Beth asked in mock exasperation. 'I assume it's from the elusive Mr G. Grey, but I haven't opened it yet, so we shall see.'

'Do be careful, will you?' Mary asked. If this phone call had been meant to ease her worries, it had clearly missed its mark. 'He sounds like a weirdo, your Mr Grey. I mean, why won't he just give you a ring? Why have letters and boxes delivered?'

Beth shrugged, something her sister could obviously not see. 'Haven't the foggiest. But I will be sure to ask him when I meet him.' He had better prepare himself; she had more questions than he would be able to answer in a week. 'I'll be sure to tell him you suspect him of being a kidnapper and a murderer, too, just so he won't try anything.'

The annoyed huff that came down the line was a clear indicator that Mary was not even remotely amused. 'I am serious, Elizabeth. I don't think you should go to this meeting. And I haven't told mum and dad about what you're up to, but don't think I won't if I think you're in too deep.'

And her father no doubt would race to Bristol to either talk some sense into her or rescue her. That she could really do without. 'Mary, I'm thirty years old, not thirteen.' She was no longer a child to be bossed around. If she was only half as strict with her actual children, something could be made of them. 'I'll be fine. I'm meeting the man in a public place, for heaven's sake, and I think I know better than to go somewhere with him alone afterward. Listen, we'll be fine. I'll phone you after and we'll be home tomorrow evening, like we agreed. Will you please stop making such a thing of it? I have met with shadier folk for my investigations, you know.'

'I would have been much happier not knowing that,' Mary complained. 'Fine, it's your life and I can't exactly stop you. But I am holding you to that promise of calling me, mind. And I don't care if it's late, just call me.'

'You are paranoid, you are,' Beth grumbled. 'But fine, have it your way. I'll call. Talk to you later.'

'You'd better,' Mary warned her. Before Beth could give an answer to that, the line went dead. She always did have to have the last word.

'What did I say about the box, Harry?' she asked when she put the phone down.

'That we couldn't look until we were in the room,' he replied promptly.

True enough, she had said that, but that wasn't all. 'Yes, and that I had to call Mary first before we opened it.' Technically it was her box, so Harry should have stayed away from it in the first place, but she could hardly blame him for his curiosity when she herself was dying to know what the box was all about and why it had been delivered to the hotel instead of her home address.

'Sorry?' he offered.

'I wish I could believe it,' she said good-naturedly. 'Now, let me have a look.'

Harry clearly thought it better to obey than to protest. He handed the box to her. It was surprisingly heavy for such a plain-looking thing. It was sturdy, Beth thought, but otherwise unmarked. She could not possibly say where it was made or what it was made for. There was no helpful "Made in" label even on the bottom to help her out.

The note that had been taped to the lid was in the barely legible script of someone who hardly ever wrote and couldn't be bothered to make an effort of it when they did. It had nothing but her name on it and the note that it should be delivered to her when she checked in at the hotel. It looked like it was written by whoever had been on duty when it was brought in. Odd, that. So it hadn't come with the post or any sort of delivery service. Delivered by hand then, maybe by Mr Grey himself? There was no way to tell.

'Please open it?' Harry begged, eyes wide and innocent.

She did. And then she blinked. _The Lord of the Rings_ was lying in it. A book? Someone had sent her a book? And it wasn't even new. Beth lifted it from the box. It smelled old. Other than that it was in pristine condition. It was a hardcover and when she leafed through it, she found that all the pages were still firmly attached to the back. None were loose. No one had written in it or had folded the pages. The only writing was on the first page, just below the title: _Property of Catherine Sarah Andrews._

'What is it, mum?' It was almost a miracle Harry hadn't spontaneously combusted out of sheer excitement and impatience yet. He was standing on tiptoes, trying to get a better look at the book in her hands.

How to explain this when she barely understood what was going on herself? 'You know that case I am working on, about the disappearance of my grandfather's sister?' She waited until he had nodded before she continued: 'This book belonged to her.'

His face lit up in understanding. 'It's a Clue.' The way he dropped his voice at the last word made it clear that in his opinion it deserved capitalisation.

'It might be at that.' It made a strange sort of sense – a tiny bit of sense, mind – in a situation she did not know how to handle. But Diane Parker had given her those letters Kate had supposedly written and they had taken place, allegedly, during the events of _The Hobbit_. And now here she was with Kate's copy of _The Lord of the Rings_. It had to mean something. But still, why send it to her here? And why now?

Harry had seen it sooner than she did. 'Something fell out.' He was already on his knees to retrieve it.

She held out her hand and took the piece of… was that parchment? Who even used that? It was the kind of material you'd sooner expect in a museum. It was not something that was commonly used.

Except it clearly was now.

_Dear Miss Andrews,_

_Please accept my most sincere apologies for being unable to come to the agreed meeting today. I hope you will forgive my delay. We will meet soon._

_Yours truly,_

_G. Grey_

Really? He was not coming? She had driven all this way for a meeting that was not going to take place? Beth almost felt betrayed. This was what she had argued with her sister about? Oh, how Mary would milk this opportunity to say _I told you so_ for all that it was worth. That alone would make this experience a very unpleasant memory.

 _I should never have decided to dig into the Kate Andrews case in the first place._ It was not the first time she had been having thoughts like this, but she rather thought that this time she really meant it. Nothing about it made sense. There were too many loose ends, too many questions, too many strange elements. She could explain none of it.

'It seems like I'm not here for work after all,' she told Harry, trying to put a brave face on it. She felt she was doing a miserable job of it. 'Our Mr Grey isn't coming.' _And after this debacle I am not sure I even want to meet the man._

Harry's face fell. 'Oh,' he said. 'Are we going home?' He was very disappointed and understandably so. He'd been counting down the days for weeks.

'No,' Beth said. They had come here. They might as well enjoy themselves. This was a disappointment true enough, but for Harry's sake and perhaps her own she could deal with that. It would be good to get out there and enjoy a bit of quality time with her son. 'We are going to have a good time with just the two of us. Put down your bag, I'll close the window and then we'll go.'

Really, who had put the window open? She could feel the draught. It almost felt as if the wind was blowing inside the building. Strange really, she didn't think she'd felt it when they had come in.

Then her gaze fell on the window in question and she stared. It wasn't open. _But then where does the wind come from?_

'Harry, stay close,' she said, not even knowing why she'd said it, only knowing that it sounded sensible. There was something in the air all of a sudden and it set her teeth on edge. Something about it felt unnatural. The wind certainly was. It did not just blow inside a room of which all the doors and windows were closed.

Harry's eyes were still wide, but she could see the panic in them. He too had sensed that something was not right. 'Mum, what's happening?'

 _I don't know._ 'We are going out now,' she replied briskly, fighting back the panic. It would do her no good to show her son how uneasy this made her; it would only make him panic more. 'Give me your hand.'

There was no protest. He grabbed the hand that was not holding the book and the note and held on tight, face pressed against her side. That was the only thing he really could do, because it became obvious to Beth that they were not going to walk anywhere. The wind was raging, truly raging all around them now and she had to squint her eyes.

 _It's almost like a whirlwind_ , she thought, _and we are in the centre._ And then another thought hit her: _Why does this sound familiar?_

As soon as it had begun, it was over. The wind fell away and there was nothing but birdsong to be heard.

_Hang on, birdsong?_

She opened her eyes fully again, only to find that they were no longer in the hotel room. In fact, they were no longer inside the building. Beth did not even think they were in Bristol anymore. No, she was sure of it. It had been clouded there. Here, there was not a cloud to be seen; the skies overhead were of the clearest blue.

Harry had looked up and had come to the same conclusion. 'Mum, where are we?' His voice was full of wonder and when she looked down, she found that he was smiling.

If their circumstances had been different, maybe she would smile too. Wherever it was that they had come – and how, how had they even come here? What did they think this was: the Wizard of Oz? – it was beautiful. There were plants and flowers in rich colours and, if she listened closely, she could hear running water somewhere in the distance.

'In a garden of sorts, I think.' It was both the right answer and not an answer at all. Like at home, it was autumn here. The leaves on the trees were no longer green, changing to reds and golds. But this was not England. _We are a long way from home. But how?_

Beth had always considered herself to be a practical person. Fiction and fantasy were nice, provided she could find the time for it, but that was all they were. She did not believe in magic. No one in their senses did. But what else could it have been? She had not imagined that wind. She certainly hadn't done drugs and she hadn't touched alcohol in months. This could not be a hallucination. It felt both real and unreal, but Beth was certain that what she was seeing around her was really there. And even so, in a hallucination she would probably not be standing here with all her luggage still at her feet and that book still in her hand.

There was no time to really think about any of it. In the distance she heard voices and they were coming nearer. They were in a small clearing with benches, but there was only one way in or out. There was nowhere to go. And she didn't know who was coming here. Goodness, she had just been abducted to who knew where by magic. Beth rather thought she could be forgiven for assuming the worst.

'Don't let go of my hand,' she warned Harry. If necessary, she wanted to be able to make a run for it, but not for all the money in the world would she leave her son behind. Her things she could do without, but not Harry. Besides, she did not think she could leave him behind even if she had wanted to; his grip on her hand was too tight. He was scared, she realised.

She only had time to push Harry a little behind her before two people walked into the clearing and she found herself staring into somehow familiar grey eyes in the face of a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvaethor has reasons, I promise. Next week he will explain himself to the best of his abilities. If anyone will understand him remains to be seen. Of course, I'm curious to see if any of you can guess his motivations. Also next time, Thráin will meet Beth.
> 
> The character list for The Book is now up on my profile on ff. net, if any of you want to have a better understanding of who is who. My username is LadyDunla over there. I've been thinking about where to post it on this site, but I haven't had any good ideas yet. If you have any, please leave suggestions. Characters will be added on first mention or first appearance. So if your favourites aren't there yet, it's not because they won't be, but because they haven't popped up yet. By the way, feel free to tell me if I've missed any.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Reviews would be most appreciated.


	9. Explaining the Unexplainable

_There is nothing quite as strange as the transition between worlds. It was sudden and bewildering and one finds oneself with so many questions and so few answers. Nothing was explained to me beforehand and though I had access to as much material as possible concerning the Kate Andrews case, I had not yet connected the dots that something similar had in fact happened to Harry and me. Why would I? Until that day I had not even believed in the existence of magic._

_As things stood, I had dismissed Kate's letters as either a cruel joke or a ploy of her kidnapper. Never in a million years would I have considered them to be the truth. Likewise I had labelled Jeremy Grey, the one single witness to her kidnapping, as a drunken lunatic in desperate need of attention. At best. At worst he might even have been the kidnapper himself. For a while I had entertained that thought, but I had to let it go due to lack of evidence. The police had tried that angle and they had eventually arrived at the same conclusion I did: that he was not quite right in the head, but otherwise harmless._

_But that day took a lot of my certainties, shook them up and left them in pieces on the ground. I was alone with Harry in a strange place and I did not know what to make of it. That I was no longer in England was an easy conclusion to reach; it was too different. Even the very air I breathed was nothing like the air at home. It was clearer, much clearer. Other than that, I was completely at a loss._

_Fortunately, I wasn't for much longer…_

 

There was a very good reason he generally avoided elves and their settlements. While it was nice to remember exactly why he usually did not come to places such as these, Thráin mostly just wanted to pack his things and leave. He had never felt so out of place as he did here, in Rivendell. It did not feel grounded in the real world, as though it existed outside of time itself, in a small sealed off bubble of its own. People could pass in and out, but other than that it had no connection to the rest of the world.

The elves themselves only strengthened that idea. The only thing that could have made them feel more surreal was if they had actually floated a few inches above the ground. Fortunately, they didn't, but you couldn't call their way of moving exactly walking either. Thráin always felt as if he was worth less than the dirt under their shoes, if dirt even had the guts to stick to the soles of their shoes, which he somehow rather doubted. He felt this with the Mirkwood elves as well, but they somehow felt more real, more like actual people. Maybe it was because they did not smile so serenely all the time. Of course the elves whose presence he had been forced to suffer on the road to Rivendell had found other ways of making him want to strangle them, which was why he had avoided them since they had arrived.

And then there was this place itself. There was magic here. Good magic, no doubt, but it permeated _everything_. It was in the walls, the bedsheets and even in the very air he breathed. And it was making his skin crawl. So much magic could not be natural. Hardly a miracle they considered themselves to be above the rest of the world; with their powers they often were.

They had been here for weeks now. The news had been delivered to Bilbo, who had been delighted to see Thráin again as well as two of his former travelling companions. Thráin had not seen him since before he had left the Shire and had been shocked at how much the burglar had aged. He was old and frail and it made his heart clench. Of course he had known that the hobbit did not have the lifespan of a dwarf, and he had already reached an age not many of his people did, but to be confronted with it had been something of a shock. _How much worse must it have been for_ adad _to see his wife age in front of him, knowing that time is running out so rapidly?_ He could not imagine and in truth did not want to do so either.

'What are we waiting for?' Alfur complained one day. They were so completely at a loss what to do that they had decided to have a look around. The buildings had been crawling with elves – not unexpected – and so they had out of sheer desperation relocated to the gardens instead. At least there they could talk somewhat freely. 'We have delivered our message. We ought to head back.'

Thráin shook his head. 'We cannot go, not yet.'

Alfur frowned, clearly not pleased with the answer. 'Why not?' he demanded. 'My hands have been idle for too long.'

Thráin understood the frustration. Their kind were not made to sit around doing nothing. Idleness suited them ill. Of course the elves did not understand this. They only saw a dwarf trying to invade their workshops, attempting to learn their secrets. They could keep their secrets as far as Thráin was concerned. He had no interest in them anyway. He only had an interest in crafting, as his people were made to do. Of course, that explanation had gone right over the ignorant elves' heads.

'I know,' he said. 'But I need to talk to the wizard. And as I hear it, a friend of mine will head this way soon. I need to have a word with him as well.'

At this Alfur rolled his eyes. 'You've got some strange folk for friends, did you know that?'

'I've been told once or twice, yes.' And Strider was among the strangest. 'But I need to speak with him all the same.' Doubtlessly the elvish princeling would be able to convey the news of Gollum's escape in the direction of Dol Guldur. That was not the reason he lingered. But he was convinced Strider knew more than he had told him, more than Thráin had been able to piece together by himself. Chances were that he had better odds coaxing information out of the Ranger than out of the wizard. And the more information he could bring back to his brother, the better it would be. _Thoren needs all the help he can find._ And Thráin knew better than most the value of information.

'I hope it won't be much longer.' Alfur still wasn't satisfied.

'I'll have a word with Lord Elrond,' Thráin promised. 'Maybe he will grant you access to a workshop, or at least a place where you can work.'

His friend snorted. 'Elves paying favours to dwarves? I wouldn't hold my breath for that one. But I thank you for trying all the same.'

Thráin did not say something along the lines of _you are welcome_. He would ask for himself as much as his friends. He needed to craft something. His fingers were itching to make something, his feet were yearning for the road. He felt agitated and having to do his waiting within the confines of the elven kingdom did nothing to cure his restlessness.

'Can't make promises, mind,' he warned.

'Didn't expect you to,' Alfur said.

By now Thráin was more or less convinced they were hopelessly lost. He was good at navigating aboveground, unlike most of his kind. But there was something about these elvish mazes that confounded his senses. Nothing was as it seemed here. But he heard voices nearby, one of them a child's if he had heard right. They might be kind enough to point them in the right direction, hopefully without mocking his state of being directionally challenged. It was hardly his fault. If the elves made paths that actually led somewhere instead of meandering here, there and everywhere he might find it easier to find his way.

It was elves he expected, but a mannish woman he found. She was standing in the middle of a little stone-paved clearing, hiding a child behind her as if she feared an attack at any moment. The expression on her face was tense. She looked like a deer that had seen the hunter, ready to bolt at any moment.

'Who are you?' she demanded. There was no tremor in her voice, but there was in the one hand that was not holding onto the boy she hid behind her.

To show that he meant her no harm, he spread his hands; he was unarmed. 'I am Thráin, son of Thorin. This is my friend, Alfur, son of Anar.' He suppressed the urge to throw a _who are you_ back in her direction. The lass looked terrified enough as it was. And strangely enough, she looked puzzled as well, as if she was trying to figure something out, but could not think of an answer that satisfied her. 'Are you well, my lady?' Let it not be said that he had lost his manners even if she obviously had to rediscover hers.

The child, having decided that no harm was going to befall him here, looked around his mother to give him an inquisitive look. 'And I am Harry,' he said. 'Harry Andrews. Pleasure to meet you.' He spoke those last words in a way that betrayed he had seen grown-ups greet each other like that. In an attempt to make himself look older, he had copied their ways.

There would have been nothing at all amiss with this introduction, but the lad's surname had hit home and had hit home hard. Andrews had been his mother's surname in that other world she had come from, before she married his father. There was no name like it in this world. And then there was the child's hair, unruly brown curls on top of his head. _It cannot be. Surely that cannot be._

But maybe, just maybe it could. Both the child and his mother – there were too many resemblances between the two for her to be anything else – wore clothes unlike Thráin had ever seen and he had travelled far and wide. The woman was wearing a skirt that only reached down to her knees, leaving the rest of her legs bare. No woman who hailed from these parts would ever think to dress like that.

Then there was the luggage at her feet. And really, why would anyone drag their luggage into the middle of the gardens if they had any choice about the matter? But those bags were odd. Their like Thráin had not seen in all his travels either. No, not in his travels, but amongst his mother's belongings…

_No, it cannot be. Surely he would not truly…_

But this was Gandalf he was thinking about and Thráin was not entirely certain what the wizard would and wouldn't do in his attempts to rid Middle Earth of the evil of the Enemy. _And then there are_ amad _'s warnings and the things she knew of a future still to come._ Then another thought: _She would strangle the wizard with his own beard if she had been alive to see this._

'Where in the world are we?' the woman asked.

Alfur had clearly not reached the same conclusion Thráin had. He had been frowning since they had met the woman and very clearly thought she was not quite in her right mind. And because he was Alfur, son of Anar, he never bothered to hide what he thought. 'Have you been at the elvish wine, lass? You're in Rivendell, home of the pointy-ears.'

She mouthed the name as if she could in fact not quite believe it. 'No, that can't be right.'

'Afraid so,' Alfur said before Thráin could stop him to contain the damage. 'You shouldn't touch those elvish drinks, you know. They're a mite bit stronger than what you're used to.'

Now he had riled her. 'I am not drunk, sir, and I thank you not to imply that I am. Now I don't know what game it is that you think you are playing, but I know I was in bloody Bristol ten minutes ago. How the hell…' She caught herself just too late, but corrected her words all the same: 'How in the name of all that is holy did I end up here, wherever here actually is?'

'Now hold on…' Alfur started to protest. Thráin cut it short by stomping on his toes.

'I do not play a joke on you, my lady,' he said smoothly over Alfur's indignant response. He really could do manners if he put his mind to it. 'You are where my friend said you are.' Now for the hardest part. 'Forgive me, but I think your lad said your family name is Andrews?' He felt a fool for even bringing it up, but he did not know what else could explain her presence, the curls, the name and the clothes.

She nodded, suspicion and distrust very clear in her eyes. She had pushed her son behind her again. 'Does that matter?'

He understood her unwillingness to share personal information with complete strangers. Dwarves were not much different and if his suspicions were right, she had only just had the shock of a lifetime. The name Bristol meant nothing to him. No such place existed, certainly not within a ten minutes' walk.

So he pressed on, ignoring Alfur's questioning stare that was trying to burn a hole in his skull. 'Forgive me for asking, but does the name Kate Andrews mean anything to you by any chance?' Then, realising that his mother had been gone from that world for almost eighty years, he added: 'Or perhaps Jacko Andrews?' It had always been an easy name to remember, since his youngest brother had been named after his mother's mysterious brother.

She startled at both names. So she _had_ heard them. And she appeared surprised that he knew them too. But there was not much time to linger on his victory, for her surprise quickly turned to anger. 'That would make you G. Grey then, wouldn't it?'

'Beg pardon?' he said.

She was riled now. 'Don't play games with me!' she snapped. 'G. Grey, the one who delivered the box and the note to my hotel. I don't know how you did it, or if I am even in Rivendell. And that is impossible, because that's a place in a book in a world that isn't real.'

If he'd had actually prepared a mental list to check if his suspicions were true, she had thus far almost named every point on it. Bad news indeed.

Alfur was unburdened by such insights. 'Not real?' he echoed. He did not ask again if she had been at the elvish wine, but it was clear that he was thinking it.

'I am not G. Grey,' Thráin assured her. _Though I can guess at who is._ 'My name is Thráin, son of Thorin Oakenshield.' Again she gave a visible reaction. It meant something to her. 'My mother was Kate, who went by the surname of Andrews before she wed my father.'

It took considerable effort to be so patient with anyone, especially when he felt the first signs of anger growing. The wizard had done it again. Even if only for the sake of her memory, that made him want to toss the wizard in the river. Unlike his mother, he actually had the physical strength to pull off such a feat.

His friend still had no idea what he was talking about. 'Oi, are you always sharing that kind of information with strangers?' he demanded. Alfur didn't know the whole story about his parents and with this new development, he would need to know. With this woman's arrival, he feared he would have a lot of explaining to do in the very near future.

'She is not just any stranger,' he replied. It was a guess, but a good one. 'I think she is kin.' The name, the curls, the fact that she knew the names he mentioned. Oh, if only _amad_ had been alive to see this.

She perked up again. So did young Harry. 'You're family?' For just a moment it could have been a younger Jack standing there, eager to know everything, delighted by everything and everyone. How times had changed

'Aye, I think so, lad,' he said. The conviction became stronger, he was almost certain. 'Don't rightly know how yet, but I reckon so.'

The woman was barely holding herself together. That she did so at all was admirable. From his parents' journal he knew that unlike this lass, his mother had lashed out and had broken down. It wasn't weakness, as Jack had declared. Thráin rather thought he wouldn't know what to do either if he suddenly found himself in another world either. She mustn't have known what hit her.

'Jacko Andrews,' she said, biting her lip. 'He was my grandfather.'

Alfur was still trying to catch up with the latest developments. 'Wasn't that your ma's elusive brother's name?' he asked. 'The one your brother was named after?' His friend was quite intelligent, but trying to understand this would make the greatest minds struggle to keep up. Even Thráin, who was in possession of more of the facts than either Alfur of the Andrews woman, found it difficult.

'It was,' he confirmed.

'I never thought it could be real,' the woman muttered. Thráin realised that he still didn't know her name. 'I never…' She trailed off and then looked at him as if he had all the answers.

Which he did not. 'I understand you have questions that need answering,' he said. He had a few of his own. Gandalf had better show up soon and he had better have a very good reason for acting as he had. 'But I am not the one with the answers.' And in Gandalf's continued and very much unexplained absence, Lord Elrond would have to do for now. If it was here that she had arrived, then surely he must know a thing or two about it.

'Then who is?' she demanded. The realisation that they were related – and thank the Maker he had actually guessed correctly – had taken away some of her distrust, but not all of it. She still had to move and she still had to let go of her son's hand. And really, what in Durin's name had the wizard been thinking, taking a child? All that smoking of his must have done some damage to the brain.

'Gandalf the Grey, a wizard,' he answered. 'I believe you have heard of him.'

Her eyes widened as she realised. 'Oh.' A short silence. ' _Oh_.'

'Indeed,' Thráin agreed.

'So, that's what this is, one of the grey wizard's schemes?' Alfur was really keeping up remarkably well, considering how little he actually knew.

'So it is,' Thráin said. And he would hold the wizard accountable for it, no doubt on that account. 'In the meantime I would offer to accompany you to Lord Elrond's house. He is a close friend of Gandalf. It may be he confided in him.'

She nodded. 'Okay.' And wasn't that a word he never thought he'd hear again. Everything about her screamed that she was not from around these parts. There were so many things she had in common with Thráin's own mother and yet he had never really stopped to think of it, her otherness so normal to him that he never questioned it. Yet it stood out to him in this lass.

'I still don't know your name,' he remarked.

'Beth,' she said. 'Beth Andrews.'

* * *

 

'What were you thinking?' It was the first thing Thoren could think of asking. Not the most grateful thing to say, he knew, but the question had been burning in his mind since the moment Elvaethor had dropped to one knee and despite that humbling gesture had taken control of the situation in a way that Thoren wasn't sure he should applaud or resent.

The elf was silent for a moment. 'The right thing,' he answered eventually.

They were in Thoren's study. Elvaethor had sat down, but Thoren was too restless for it, so he paced.

'I…' He was at a loss for words. 'I do not know what you mean.'

Elvaethor nodded. To look at him you would never know that he had caused major uproar just an hour ago. Already the rumours were flying around the Mountain. No doubt the tales told at the day's end would be far more fanciful than the truth, but they would do their job: when the sun set there would not be one dwarf in Erebor who didn't know what had happened at the gate.

'I barely know it myself,' the elf said. Odd, that. He had never struck Thoren as the impulsive type. He may seem so on occasion, but only because he always played his cards ridiculously close to his chest. Fortunately he knew the King under the Mountain well enough not to take offence at the brusque tone or the lack of grateful display. 'Yet I know that I could not in good faith have done anything else.'

'You know you are welcome here,' Thoren said, remembering that he had manners. 'I would never turn you away and I am more grateful than I have said to have you here in these troubled times.'

'I knew this,' Elvaethor said. 'You are not unlike your parents and I learned how to read them. You have not caused offence.'

Many times his father had complained that the Insect must be a mind-reader of some skill, what with him plucking thoughts out of his head and answering them out loud. Thoren knew what he had meant by that.

He nodded. 'Why did you do it?' he asked again. 'Surely you must know that Thranduil will not let you return home with him now.'

Elvaethor did not seem particularly troubled by this news. Like as not he had known already before he had made that vow outside the gate. Still, why did this not trouble him more? He would be an outcast among his own people and the price he had paid for his association with Thoren's family had already been so steep. But to sever all connection, to make it known that his allegiance was with a people not his own, that was to go beyond the point of no return.

And yet, Elvaethor was completely at ease. No, at peace. That was the best word to describe his elvish friend. Thoren had never even seen him like that. It was both incredibly reassuring and increasingly puzzling.

'I made a promise to your mother,' Elvaethor responded. 'A few weeks before she passed away.'

'To look after us, I know.' The elf had mentioned it quite casually a few years later. 'But she asked you to look after us, not to abandon all hope of ever being with your own people again. I would never ask that of you. Nor would any of my siblings.'

And he had a good reason for that. Because while dwarves lived longer than men and hobbits, they were still mortal. They would grow old and eventually they would die. And he could not in good conscience ask of this good soul to stand by as time took his friends from him, not leaving as much as a wrinkle in his own face. It had been hard enough on him when Thoren's parents died. He had not shown much emotion and he had not spoken of his grief, but his eyes had given him away. The shadow that had been in them for years had only been lifted so very recently. To ask him to go through that again and again would be beyond cruel. And Thoren was not cruel. He would save his friend the pain if only he could and Elvaethor had effectively taken that option away from him.

'I know you do not.' Finally Thoren knew what Thráin meant when he had complained at length about the endless serenity of elves. He'd rather that Elvaethor roused himself and thus made clear that he knew what had upset Thoren so. He would choose that over this calm, this belittlement of what he had done. 'And I know that your mother never intended this in asking me.' Peace, there was such peace in his face. Where did it come from? 'But in the asking she gave me a great gift.'

Thoren blinked. Elvaethor was given to cryptic words, but he was outdoing himself today. 'I do not know what you mean. What gift?' When Thranduil was being so enigmatic, he would have to remind himself multiple times that losing his temper was not going to do him any favours. With Elvaethor, although it was no less frustrating, he could at least summon up the patience to hear him out.

Elvaethor must have sensed this. 'She gave me a reason not to run,' he replied. It was the most straightforward he had been all day.

Would that it actually explained what it meant. 'You should not have bound yourself to my people so completely,' he said. Part of him was so relieved to have him here and he did not object to having him here permanently either. It was concern for the elf that moved him now. And that meant he had to explain why he talked as he did. 'I would not have you go through the pain of losing friends again if I can help it.' _I saw what it did to you when my parents passed. Do not go through that again on my behalf, my friend._

'You are kind,' Elvaethor acknowledged. It was not a word Thoren would have used to describe himself. 'But I know my own mind. And there is much to set right and much to atone for.'

'Atone for?' In his confusion he could only parrot the last two words back at their original speaker. 'Elvaethor, what could you have possibly done that you would need to pay for so bitterly? You have done no wrong.' He could not even imagine it.

'I have not wronged you personally.' Well, at least they were in agreement on that. 'But I ran once and in doing so, I wronged a friend and failed his kin. It is not a shame I would bear a second time.'

Thoren blinked. He was convinced that the elf had used the Common Tongue, but he would not have been easier to understand if he had used the slippery elvish tongue. And admitting that he did not understand something had never been his strong suit. But Elvaethor spoke in riddles the deciphering of which went far beyond Thoren's skill. Dwarves had no use for word games and the like. They were blunt, brutally so.

His friend noticed his confusion. 'It is a long tale, my friend, and a sad one.'

'Another day, then,' Thoren conceded. 'But I would have this story of you one day.' There was not much time to sit and talk. In the original schedules there had been no time for a talk at all, but Thoren had insisted on it, much to Duria's dismay, who saw all her carefully laid plans for the day go to waste. There were guests to entertain and talks to be prepared for. Thoren personally felt that he would be much better prepared for both if he knew what had caused Elvaethor to act as he had.

'You may hold me to that.' Elvaethor smiled, but there was a shadow of past sorrow in his eyes.

Thoren shook his head. 'My _amad_ used to say that you were a riddle wrapped up in a mystery wearing an ever-present smile. She was not wrong, you know.'

'I have my reasons.' He rose from the chair. 'My former king will not dare draw back from these talks and the alliance now. He would lose face in doing so.'

Oh, of course there was another reason than the one that was so obviously close to the elf's heart. It never could be simple with elves, could it? Thoren could feel a headache coming on. These games were so against his nature that he never saw them until someone pointed them out to him. Usually that someone was Cathy, who was entirely too sly and cunning for her own good, or Elvaethor. For that reason alone he would be glad to have him by his side in the days to come. Why folk could not just play fair, play by the rules, he would never know. He valued straight talk. Why not all the rest of the world did the same was a mystery to him. It would certainly make his life much easier.

'Because he would not dare retreat to his woods now that one of his people has chosen to stand with the dwarves,' Thoren understood. The elven king was vain and yet he had a reputation to maintain. To run now would make him seem cowardly in comparison with Elvaethor and that simply would not do. 'And now you have forced his hand.'

'I believe he will hold that against me for many centuries to come.' There was entirely too much cheer in his voice. One thing was certain: Elvaethor did not regret his actions.

Thoren smiled wryly. 'A good thing then, that your room won't be going anywhere.'

'A good thing indeed.'

Thoren was about to suggest they go and re-join the party. There would be a feast tonight to welcome the delegation before talks would begin in the morning. Speaking of wasting time. Thoren was not averse to celebrations – and the fact that the elves and men of the Long Lake had come in the first place was certainly worthy of one – but he felt as though it was just one more thing causing them to waste time while the might of Sauron threatened their borders. Thráin had been right in saying that the Lord of Mordor would not let him get away with sending his envoy off like he had. Thoren did not regret it – the nerve of that messenger in assuming they would ever consider betraying a friend for riches still set his blood to boiling – but he also acknowledged that he ought to have shown more restraint in his answer and tone. He ought to have played for time and he hadn't and he feared that somewhere down the road, he would pay the price for that. _And here we are, feasting as if nothing is amiss in the world at all._

He did not get the opportunity to invite Elvaethor to join him; a knock on the door disturbed them. Not a second later, before Thoren even had a chance to say _come in_ , it opened and Jack poked his head in.

'You might want to come out now,' he said. 'Duria's becoming unbearable.'

Well, that was hardly a surprise. They had been in here for a while and his sister, who was in charge of the practical preparations, would have become ever more impatient with every passing second. And since she thought it was her life's work to keep her siblings in line – a delusion she stubbornly refused to be cured of – she no doubt thought it her right to interfere with Thoren's doings whenever she pleased.

'Aye, I reckoned,' he remarked. 'We are done here at any rate.'

Most people would have seen that as a dismissal, but not Jack. 'As I hear it, I won't be the only one bumping my head against doorposts in future,' he observed, looking at Elvaethor. The very fact that he was able to somewhat joke about it meant that, Maker be praised, it was one of his good days. They were so very rare these days. To achieve a state of somewhat cheerfulness – or indeed a state of absence of anger or resentment – without Flói standing behind him was even more of a phenomenon. One that Thoren was grateful for, but that he did not expect to last. If he was lucky it would survive the next couple of hours, but he did not count on it.

'Indeed,' Elvaethor said. 'I shall have to learn to duck before I pass through a doorway.'

'You'll get used to it.' Something about his posture said that Jack himself never mastered that art, but for the moment at least he was still on the right side of melancholia. _Where in Durin's name is Flói?_

'I believe I shall,' the elf said. He, unlike Jack, had no trouble at all keeping his humour. 'After all, I will have many centuries to do so.'

'Best stay out of King Pointy-Ear's way then,' Jack agreed. The contempt he had for the elves had clearly not taken a temporary break along with the resentment he harboured for the rest of the world. 'Not that it will be hard,' he added. 'I am to extend a formal invitation on Lufur's behalf to properly come and celebrate your newfound freedom with him. Well, him, and whoever he's found time to invite to this spontaneous celebration.'

He was gone before anyone could respond to that, but he left the door open. Hardly subtle, but then, Jack never did subtlety. He hadn't as a child, but at least he had been a happy child. Of course that had changed when he started to grow and when he had begun to understand what people said about him. It had never stopped breaking his parents' hearts. _It's as if he doesn't know how to be happy anymore_ , Cathy had once observed. _Or even simply content. It's like he's forgotten how to just_ be _._ And she was right. Jack didn't know how to be. _And I do not rightly know how to help him._

Elvaethor once again read his mind. 'He has Flói.' It was what everyone said, but it also happened to be true. He would not draw comfort from anyone else, would not accept it if they tried to offer it, but he did from their cousin. A small relief, but small only.

'Would that I knew how to ease his way,' Thoren said. Elvaethor was one of the very few he could admit that to.

The elf's steady gaze caught his own. 'You will have another part to play tonight,' he reminded him. Good, he wasn't letting him wallow in it. Mahal knew he could ill afford distractions tonight. The elves would surely keep him on his toes, in more ways than one. _Why do they all have to be so bloody tall?_

'I know,' he said. 'Don't I just know it.'

Would that it could all be over. But it couldn't. So he mustered his courage and left the study. He had a war to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes on this one: I'm writing and publishing this story chronologically. Basically that means that sometimes there's more happening on one side of the narrative than the other, which means you might not always get chapters split between the Rivendell and Erebor side, but sometimes just a chapter set in just Rivendell or just Erebor. So sometimes it might take a while before we check in with certain characters again. Don't worry, I won't have forgotten about them.
> 
> On another note, I've been dropping a lot of hints about Elvaethor lately, so I've decided to do a chapter in Duly Noted about him. It needs a little bit more work, but I think I'll be able to upload that later this week. I'm aiming for Wednesday, so keep an eye out for that one.
> 
> We've got an all Rivendell chapter coming up for next week. Thráin gets angry. Also, he gets rude. Beth tries to deal with things.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading. Reviews would be most welcome. I'd love to know what you think.


	10. To Navigate a Minefield

_I think I was in shock, or at least in a state of near shock as Thráin led Harry and me out of the gardens and up to the house. Pieces of the puzzle had started slowly falling into place. I was no foolish girl who would go to extreme lengths in insisting this wasn't really happening. I knew I could trust my own senses and I was sensible enough to realise that if Harry was seeing the same things I was, it had to be real._

_But it was a shock. I didn't know how G. Grey, or Gandalf as I was told to call him, had done it when, according to my newfound kinsman, he was not even in Rivendell. He was off on mysterious business of his own somewhere west and he had not been here in all the time that Thráin had been. So it could not possibly have been him who had delivered the box to the hotel or who had posted the letter that was sent to me back in the spring. It'd had post stamps on the envelop and it had come in with the other mail, so he could not have just made it appear from out of nowhere. Besides, he was apparently knowledgeable enough to have been able to give me a date, time and exact location in a world not his own. And he had somehow learned of my investigation in Kate Andrews's disappearance. How could he have done that?_

_Thráin didn't have any answers for me when I put these questions to him. 'Don't ask of me to know the mind of a wizard,' he said, almost as if it had offended him that I allegedly thought he did._

_My world was spinning rapidly out of my control and I had to work hard to keep the panic at bay. It was only the thought of Harry that kept me from either breaking down in tears or having a screaming meltdown. Because the one thing that had become very clear to me, in fact the very moment Thráin told me who his mother was, was that everything I had found out about Kate Andrews in the past months had been true. There had been no psychopath, everything in Kate's letters had been nothing but truth and Jeremy Grey had been as sane as he could have been. How the man had been ridiculed for having been brave enough to speak of what he had seen! I myself felt fairly ashamed at realising I had been one of the people doing the ridiculing. Of course that was after his death, but still._

_Meanwhile, all of this newfound insight did little to calm my nerves. If possible, it made me more afraid than anything else. Because if Kate's letters could be believed, she had been taken to perform a particular job, one that had not been without danger. Given the fact that it had been about eighty years and I had kindly been sent a copy of_ The Lord of the Rings _, and Kate's old copy at that, it took no great mind to piece together what I was there for. The grey wizard was many things, but subtle he was most certainly not. And sometimes I really hated how quickly I could order little snippets of information together to make one coherent whole of it all. In the given circumstances, I might even have preferred ignorance for a little longer…_

 

If things had been any different, Beth might have thought she had wandered into a dream. Rivendell was breathtakingly beautiful. The colours were somehow brighter, the air clearer and the sounds friendlier. If she had come here of her own free will, she would have felt peace the likes of which she had not experienced in years.

Instead it took all of her self-control to keep the panic from sending her right into a meltdown. She couldn't afford it. Goodness, Harry still thought it was all one great adventure. He wasn't yet old enough to realise that magic wasn't real. The kid still believed that Father Christmas was the one delivering the presents under the tree. He had not learned to be all sensible about the world. And for once, that may be to her advantage, because it kept him calm and even reasonably happy.

Harry had taken one look at Alfur and decided that he liked him. Beth didn't know exactly what he was, although from his looks and height she would have guessed dwarf. She didn't dare to ask. That was probably impolite. Alfur on the other hand clearly did not know what to make of Harry and her either, but Thráin's word that they were kin had clearly been enough for him to at least for the moment stop asking questions. Thráin's assurance to explain the situation in full once he himself had gained a better understanding of it might have something to do with it too.

She didn't know what to make of him any more than she knew what to think of his friend. He had declared her family, even though she was very distant family and they had never met, and for him that seemed sufficient information to go on. He had been very quick in offering his help when he had found out.

 _I suppose I know where I have seen his eyes before,_ she thought as they walked through the gardens in one of the most awkward silences she had ever experienced in all her life. They were her grandpa Andrews's. And from the photographs she had seen of his sister, she knew it was a feature they had shared.

Still, something did not make sense. 'If you are Kate's son,' she began, 'shouldn't you be older?' She had done the math and things did just not add up, even if she had given birth to a child at relatively old age.

He laughed. 'How old do you think I am?'

Beth gave him a scrutinising glance. 'Late twenties, early thirties,' she estimated. He certainly could not be much older than she was. He looked young, younger still when he laughed.

'I turned seventy-four last summer,' he announced.

'He's practically still in swaddling,' Alfur chimed in helpfully.

'Oh, aye, and you're what? A full six years older than I am?' It was a little shocking to see how quickly he could go from quiet and almost brooding to this relaxed, joking fellow. Beth had a feeling he was more used to the latter than to the former. And these two must be bantering a lot; it sounded like they had this discussion many times before.

'Seventy-four?' she echoed. 'That's about as old as my Uncle Archie.' _And he is old and grey_. Thráin most certainly was not.

He frowned at her, mirth forgotten. 'Did your book not make mention of this?' He thought for a moment. 'Or _amad_ in her letters to her brother?'

She was not in the mood for riddles. 'Made mention of what?'

'We dwarves have a longer lifespan than your kind,' Alfur replied before Thráin got the chance.

Thráin scoffed at him. 'So, now you're in the divulging mood? Did you receive a blow to the head?'

'No, there was just a mountain troll flattening my foot, I reckon.' Alfur didn't miss a beat before he threw an insult back his friend's way. 'Anyways, here I am, making all these allowances for your kin and now you're complaining? Complicated fellow, are you?'

Thráin smirked. 'You might want to take a good long look in one of these elvish mirrors, my friend.'

Alfur shook his head. 'Nah, I am a dwarf of simple pleasures,' he declared, confirming the theory that he was indeed a dwarf. 'Give me work, food and company and I'll be content.'

'The company being for purposes of chatting to death, I figure.' It was becoming a bit like a tennis match, with how quickly this chatter went back and forth. Harry was certainly seeing it that way; his head went from Alfur to Thráin and back again.

'Ah, you wound me!' Alfur pretended to be insulted.

'Piercing that shield of self-worth would even be beyond the might of a wizard,' Thráin pointed out. 'And speaking of wizards, I fear this is where you and I will part company for a while.' He gave Alfur a pointed look. 'Could you take the luggage and tell Glóin and Bofur that Gandalf has done to my kinswoman what he once did to my mother?'

'You've been hanging around these elves too long; you're just as cryptic.' Alfur clearly didn't like it.

All jest had gone from Thráin's voice and face. 'They will know what I mean.' Was that actual anger she saw in his eyes? Why would he be? No one had harmed him, had they?

It had been years and years since she had actually read _The Lord of the Rings. The Hobbit_ had been slightly more recently picked off the shelf, so she did recall dwarves were a grumpy and complaining bunch who really liked to be rich, but beyond that, there wasn't much she remembered. But from her research she knew that Kate Andrews had actually been a fan of Tolkien's works. She would have got on tremendously well with Peter, who was a very big fan. He had all the books and watched those old movies – extended editions, naturally – at least once a year. From the look of things, Kate had been like that, maybe a bit less extreme, but she would have known enough to not make herself look like a complete fool in this world. The same could not be said of her.

 _Whatever he bloody well wants, Gandalf abducted the wrong sibling_ , she thought. And wasn't it strange she even thought things like this in the first place. The panic, temporarily subsided by the dwarves' jesting, came back with a vengeance. _I can't do what Kate did. I've got Harry and my family and I need to go home again. Oh, dear God, Mary will be worried out of her mind._

In this case it wasn't helping that she knew what had become of her great-aunt. It meant that she also was reasonably sure of what was in store for her. And with all due respect to Kate and her achievements, this was a whole lot bigger than a dragon and a battle. From what she could remember of the book and Peter's ramblings, there would be multiple battles and a dragon might actually be preferred over the creepy ghosts in black robes she vaguely recalled wandering around the story.

Surprisingly it was Alfur who saved her from drowning in her own thoughts. He had hoisted Harry over his shoulders. Her son was squealing with laughter. 'No, _I_ am not luggage!'

It was instantly clear that she had missed something. 'Excuse me, what on earth do you think you're doing?'

Thráin was the one who answered her. 'We will need to speak with Lord Elrond.' The tone suggested that Thráin was more inclined to have a heated argument with the elf than a civilised conversation. There was certainly no amusement now and the anger had become more pronounced. Well, dwarves did not really like elves, did they? That might explain it.

_I wish I remembered more!_

Beth liked to have things sorted out, in order. She liked to work to a schedule, to know when what was going to happen. And today her life was spinning so wildly out of control that she could not possibly keep up with all the developments. And it was wreaking havoc with both her mood and her manners.

'Yes,' she said. 'I knew that.' _World-hopping doesn't come with sudden forgetfulness._ 'What's that got to do with Harry being dragged around like a sack of potatoes?'

Alfur's sudden glare told her how much he appreciated her talking like that, which was to say, not at all. Thráin was equally unimpressed. 'I thought it best not to have a child present at such a conversation.' He had gone oddly formal again. Was that just him or did all the people around here talk like that? 'He will be safe with my kin and you will see him after.'

It sounded sensible. But the mere idea of letting Harry out of her sight in the presence of complete strangers made her stomach clench in protest. _Then again, you ship him off to Mary's five days a week._ She did, but that was different. Mary was her sister. She knew she could entrust Harry to her. But these people were strangers. But they were also Thráin's family. That was what he'd said, wasn't it? Did that mean they were somehow her family too or was it just his father's side of the family? All of this was giving her a headache.

She gave a curt nod. Harry seemed to be happy and if she had to trust someone, it might be best to trust the people who weren't responsible for abducting them in the first place. 'Okay,' she said. 'But let's be quick about it.'

'Wouldn't count on it, lass.' Alfur at least had not lost his humour over it. 'Thráin here has been waiting for an excuse to chew these elves out for weeks. And he's a lot like his ma, you know; once they get going there's no stopping them.'

'Get out of my sight,' Thráin told him, but it was more said in fond exasperation than in actual anger.

'As you wish, your highness,' Alfur said. 'Come on then, lad, climb on my back. You don't weigh more than a sack of grain altogether and I'll need my hands free for your luggage.' Harry didn't need telling twice. It did look a bit awkward, because Alfur was a dwarf and Harry was relatively tall for his age. Her son was still the smallest one of the two, but he probably wouldn't be for very long.

'Go, horse!' Harry commanded and Alfur made a whinnying sound before taking off, nearly bowling over an elf coming round the corner.

'Your son will be safe with him.' Thráin appeared to have read her mind. 'Whatever stories you may think you have heard about dwarves stealing children, they are untrue.'

Beth frowned. 'I don't think I've heard those stories, not in my world.' _There are no dwarves in my world, or elves, or wizards._ And she liked it that way. She liked to be able to understand the world she lived in. Here, in Rivendell, she was far, far out of her depth.

Thráin only nodded. 'Good.' She could not be sure, but she thought he had seemed somewhat surprised.

The elf Alfur had nearly knocked down walked past them with one eyebrow quizzically raised and Beth found herself turning to look after him as he walked away from them. Of course she had known they were supposed to be beautiful, but it was quite something else seeing it. And now that she had, their beauty seemed somewhat overwhelming.

Thráin mistook her awe for astonishment. 'Don't expect them to take notice of you,' he said. She could hear the scorn in his voice. 'We're too far beneath them for that. They suffer our presence because they must, not out of genuine generosity.'

 _And you suffer them because you must,_ Beth thought. He did not seem overly fond of them himself. So why was he even here if he did not want to be and the elves in turn did not want him here either? There was so much she didn't know. She could practically feel the headache steadily increasing. Soon it would be unbearable.

'Coffee,' she moaned. 'Coffee, my kingdom for a cup of coffee.'

Thráin looked at her strangely. 'Your kingdom for what now? You have a kingdom of your own?' It was hard to say which of these two things puzzled him most.

Beth only registered one thing. They didn't know coffee. This was going to be hard. 'It's just a quote. Well, sort of.' How to explain that one? 'From a play, from my world. Shakespeare.'

If she had hoped this would clear things up a bit, she had been hoping in vain. In a gesture not unlike the elf who had just walked by, he raised one eyebrow and then let the matter rest. Or so she thought. 'My mother used to say things of the sort,' he said. There was the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. 'Words that none could understand the meaning of and she'd be smiling like she enjoyed a private joke.'

One thing was for certain. 'I did not joke.' In any other situation she might have all but committed murder to discover snippets of information about Kate Andrews, but as matters stood, she was not in the mood for it. Learning that her letters had actually been the truth kind of took the joy of discovery out of it for her. And now she only wanted to be home, put her research through the shredder and find a new project that wasn't so bloody impossible. In fact, she would pay good money to forget this day. 'Let's just find your Lord Elrond and hope he has a way to send me back.'

Thráin frowned so deeply the lines seemed almost etched into his forehead. 'He is not _my_ Lord Elrond and I wouldn't count on it if I were you. This is of Gandalf's making and even if Lord Elrond was of a mind to undo it, I do not think he could.'

 _Of course, I forgot you do not like elves._ So many things to remember. Beth didn't think she could possibly think of it all. And Thráin, kinsman or not, was not the most patient of teachers. It didn't help that he seemed to slip between being in and out of humour so quickly and unpredictably. 'Let's just go,' she said, rubbing her temples.

He took some pity on her. 'For all that I do not like elves, Lord Elrond is by far one of the more reasonable,' he said. 'And I do not think he will stand for what Gandalf did. Taking my mother is one thing, but she was unattached. No doubt your husband will need you to return to him.'

For one moment Beth was incredibly confused. Husband, what husband? Where in the world had he gotten the idea that she was married? And then it hit her. Harry. She had a son and single mothers would be thin on the ground around these parts. Well, unless the husband had fallen in battle or succumbed to a sickness they couldn't treat. But all those single mothers would have been married first. Beth had never been and she didn't think she ever wanted to. But how to explain that?

'I am not married,' she replied curtly. 'Harry's father is…' She hesitated, before settling on: 'Long gone. He's long gone.' Hopefully Thráin would think he died and not ask any more questions. She didn't like to lie, but a little misdirection wouldn't hurt her or him. Besides, it wasn't any of his business.

It worked like a charm. 'I am sorry to hear that.' There was more understanding in his eyes than Beth liked, though, almost as if he had heard the phrase before and knew what it meant. _How much did Kate tell her son about her own world and her life before she came to this one?_ From her own investigation she knew that Kate's parents had been divorced and that Kate had severed all contact with her father. She could have told Thráin, she supposed.

She didn't ask.

'Where will we find him?' she asked. 'Lord Elrond, I mean.'

'This time of day, the library,' her new friend answered.

This immediate reply confused her a little. 'So, you don't like elves, but you know where to find one specific one in all of Rivendell at any given hour?' It seemed a bit odd to say the least.

'I am a frequent visitor of the place myself,' Thráin explained. 'Though I am forced to share it with those whose company I would not willingly seek out.'

Huh. He was a reader? He did not look like one to her. This gruff guy she could picture swinging a sword around or something of the sort. More brawl than brain, she had assumed at first, but the moment she thought it, she had known she had not been quite right in thinking that. He was intelligent, but, in her opinion, not the book-kind of intelligent. He didn't seem like someone who could enjoy sitting still for hours with a book.

'I see,' she said, even when she didn't. From what she had seen so far, he appeared to be easily insulted. He was nice enough to be around when no offensive things were said, but it was a bit like navigating a minefield without a map; eventually she would step on one and he would go all dark and broody and it made her feel like an idiot.

This amused him. 'Do you?'

Beth didn't answer. No need to dig her grave any deeper than it already was.

Her silence must have been all the answer he needed, because he said: 'We dwarves value straight talk. The truth will not offend me.' The words were brusque, but they were also sincere, as far as Beth could tell.

 _I am doing this all wrong,_ she lamented silently and not for the first time she desperately wished she could remember more of Tolkien's world. Unfortunately wishing did not make the knowledge suddenly appear.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'So that's the way to go: it doesn't matter what you say, as long as it's honest?' That was a bit of a novelty.

'Among my people, most certainly,' Thráin replied. His good humour had obviously returned, because he was smiling somewhat again. 'Though I would advise you not to do so with the elves. And be on your guard when talking to them; they will say yes and no in the same sentence and you won't be any the wiser for it.' When he noticed Beth's confusion, he added: 'They'll talk you round and round in circles so skilfully your head will spin.' The smile widened. 'One of my mother's old pieces of wisdom. She was not particularly fond of elves, as you might have surmised.'

Kate's letters had been rather clear on that, as a matter of fact. 'Yes, I did read something about it in the letters she wrote to my grandfather. She did not seem to like them much.'

Thráin laughed heartily, sensing maybe that dislike was too mild a word for Kate's feelings about the fairest folk Beth had ever seen. 'Indeed,' he said.

Ugh, all this effort on her behalf was making her feel awkward enough, but now he was being nice as well? Why was he even doing that? Well, if he was right and his people did value straight talk, maybe she should just ask.

So she did. 'Why are you even helping me?' she blurted out. That was not normally like her, being so direct about matters, especially not to strangers, but by now the not knowing was getting really old really fast. 'I mean, you don't know me, I don't know you. But here you are and you're helping me.' No, that wasn't all of it. 'And clearly you think it's worth getting into a fight with your host over.'

She wasn't sure, but it looked like it was approval she saw in his eyes. She wasn't quite prepared for the blunt honesty he sent her way, though. 'True enough,' he said. 'I hardly know you, but you are my kinswoman all the same. And you have been wronged terribly in the same way my mother was wronged many years ago. I would not have you go through the same.'

'That's… kind,' Beth said hesitantly. It explained some of it, but still, was being family enough for him to leap to her defence? It seemed somewhat far-fetched. Then again, this was another world with different morals and different people. How was she to know what was the norm? _It's a different country and they do things differently here._ She had better remember it.

Thráin chuckled. 'That's not a word people normally use when they talk about my family,' he informed her. 'Come, you'll soon see why.'

With that surprisingly cryptic remark, he turned right into another corridor, leaving Beth no choice but to follow after him.

* * *

 

Thráin was well aware he had not told his newfound cousin the whole reason why he was on the warpath. She most certainly had been wrong when she had thought it was out of kindness. His family was not good with that. Anger, on the other hand, came easy to all of them.

And he was, spitting mad, in fact. What in Durin's name had Gandalf been thinking? Thráin had read the story his parents had written and he had been struck dumb by the heartache he had found in the pages, not because it was news to him, but because he finally understood why his mother would go quiet and sad at times. She of course she had never explained it when he asked, and he had. And now the wizard was about to put another woman through the same sufferings. He could not stand for that.

It did decidedly not help that he kept drawing comparisons between Beth and his own _amad_. Had she looked as lost when she first found herself in another world? Had she not known what to say either? Or had she responded to it the way Thráin remembered her doing when she was out of her depth, with anger and words that took down everything in their path? Had she asked as many questions as Beth did? The story had given some insights, but it had not been a minute-to-minute account of events and a story was no substitute for actually being there.

And then there was that big difference. Beth had a son, about six or seven years old. He didn't know where the father was, other than not there, and Beth hadn't seemed willing to divulge that information, so he let it be. And it was unacceptable dragging a woman and a child into a world that would no doubt very soon find itself engaged in a war the likes of which this Age had not seen before. Even if Gandalf needed an advisor again, like he had eighty years ago, surely there must have been others fit to do the job? And maybe Alfur was right; he had been waiting for a decent excuse for an argument with the elves and he refused to believe that this time Elrond was unaware of Gandalf's schemes. There had to be a good reason why Beth had arrived in Rivendell of all places. With so much danger in the world, Rivendell was one of the last safe havens west of the Misty Mountains.

Thráin saw the intent of the wizard in that. In that and in all the details Beth had divulged. He had not understood all of it – even having the advantage of being the son of a woman from another world had not helped him much in understanding aforementioned world – but he had comprehended enough to learn that a lot of planning on Gandalf's part had gone into it and that he must have had an accomplice. He knew that what had been done to his mother was called a There and Back Again spell. One could go to that other world and return from it, but that was the limit, because, according to the grey wizard, travel between worlds was not meant to be. Gandalf had been there prior to Thráin's mother's abduction, so reason dictated he could not have done so again. Someone else must have gone in his stead. And the wizard did not lack elven friends to run errands for him, even the errands that did not make much sense.

'After you,' he told Beth, holding open the door to the library for her. The lass had been quiet for the remainder of the walk, keeping her thoughts to herself, but Thráin could tell her mind had not been idle. She was intelligent, this cousin of his, and under that calm and collected exterior, she was hiding both fear and no small measure of anger over what had been done to her. He prayed to the Maker that she had the sense to show some of the latter. Maybe that would make the elf sit up and pay attention. And if not, Thráin would do it for her.

She nodded and did as he asked, but stopped two steps into the library. And in its own way it was indeed very impressive. Thráin himself did not see the use of things that had been crafted purely for decoration rather than use, but the race of men had a long history of being in awe of everything the Firstborn did and made. His own mother had been an exception rather than the rule. Thráin knew this, but was nevertheless annoyed.

'Come,' he told her, brushing past her, leading the way to the corner of the library he knew Lord Elrond liked to use. He had been here much in weeks past. With access to workshops denied to him and his kin, he had needed to divert himself another way and the library of Rivendell had garnered some fame. While he abhorred having to put quill to parchment, he had never lacked interest in reading the words others had written.

True to expectations, they found Lord Elrond at his usual desk, scrolls spread out in front of him. But his elven senses must have detected them long before they walked into his line of sight, for his attention was not on his books.

'Ah, you must be the advisor Gandalf sent for.' Well, at least he wasted no time on pleasantries. Good, for Thráin had no patience for them.

Beth was speechless for the time being, so Thráin took it upon himself to answer in her stead. 'So you did have knowledge of his plans,' he concluded. Which was strange, when one thought on it for longer than a few seconds. The Lord of Rivendell had a reputation for being kind, the one who always took refuge on the moral high ground. What had been done to Beth did not fit with what Thráin knew to be true of him. 'I did not believe you would give your consent to such a scheme.'

There was great wisdom and solemnness in the elf's eyes and Thráin almost did a step back in spite of himself when that gaze settled on him. 'You do not yet understand the danger this world is in, Thráin, son of Thorin,' he said. 'Before long, the Shadow will grow darker and longer and threaten all of this world. Gandalf did as he had to.'

Thráin scoffed. 'Like he did when he took my mother.' He would always have mixed feelings about that. On one hand he recognised the hurt she must have suffered and the injustice of the wizard's actions, but on the other hand he was oddly grateful. He would not have been born without her there. His father would have perished and Dáin would be King under the Mountain.

Much to his own surprise, Lord Elrond did not appear to know what he meant. 'Your mother?'

He almost felt triumphant. 'Was not from Bree. Nor was she married to my father yet when she passed through your lands.' It was rare at all for a dwarf to know something an elf did not. Rarer still was it for an elf to show that they did not know something and Elrond was visibly confused. He must not have been as deep in Gandalf's council as he believed himself to be. _Welcome to working with wizards, my Lord Elf_. 'And Beth Andrews is the granddaughter of my mother's brother and therefore my kinswoman.' And let the elf work out for himself that her abduction was a slight Thráin would not stand for. Neither would Glóin and Bofur, once they learned of what had passed.

'I see,' the elf said. He'd wiped his face blank again, but he had been too late in doing so. Thráin had caught a glimpse of the emotion underneath. And he rather thought it was a safe guess to say that he was not very pleased with Gandalf's conduct at the moment. Or rather, that he did not mind the actions as much as he hated being in an argument with dwarves and finding he was not in possession of all the facts. Of course, he would never admit as much to Thráin, or Beth for that matter, but hopefully he would take it up with the wizard.

'Do you?' Thráin doubted that he did.

He was ignored. Instead, the elf turned to Beth. 'Don't be afraid, child. No harm will come to you here.'

It had been a miracle that Beth had managed to keep herself together for as long as she had, but now she finally broke. And when the words came out, Thráin almost found himself surprised at the anger in them. 'I should not even have been here. This is wrong. What right do you think you have to allow me to be dragged here, against my will?' She held herself with an authority that was hard to deny. Maybe it was all that kept her from falling apart, Thráin did not know. Maybe it simply came with the territory of being a mother. A few times already he had seen her on the verge of saying something rude, but she had always caught herself at the last moment, for her son's sake.

'I believe Gandalf issued an invitation,' Elrond said. He did seem uncomfortable, though.

'For a meeting, an interview!' Beth exclaimed. Thráin saw the tremor in her hands. 'He claimed to have information about the Kate Andrews case, something that could help me in writing my book! I thought he had something useful for me for a change, not fairy tales and whirlwinds and whatnot. Oh, dear God!'

She had kept her composure for a long time considering what she had been through. Now shock was setting in. Thráin had seen it before, about ten years ago. He had been tracking a small party of orcs that had terrorised the region of the Ered Luin and he had caught up with them at a small village of men. He had dispatched of them, but not in time to save the village from ruin. He had helped the survivors as best he could, building a shelter, finding food, aiding the wounded to the best of his abilities. Among the ones still capable to help had been a young woman, a widow now, with two children. When the day dawned, she'd had four children and a husband. For the sake of her two remaining children she had kept her head high and she had worked as hard as she could to get what was left of her community organised, fed and sheltered. It was only when night had fallen and her children had fallen asleep that she had succumbed to her tears. The sound of her sobs had broken Thráin's heart, but he hadn't known how to comfort her. The orcs were dead, true enough, but her home had been burned down and no comforting word of his – provided he could find them and speak them – would restore her loved ones back to life. He had offered her the use of his coat against the cold wind and had prepared a cup of tea for her. He wasn't sure how much it had helped.

Likewise, he had no idea what to do for the cousin he hadn't known existed when he rose this morning. But now, as then, he felt the anger for the injustice that had been done. _Would that the wizard were here._ Thráin would most certainly know what to do with him.

Beth was still going on. 'And if that isn't bad enough, you took my son with me. For heaven's sake, he's only six years old! And now you want me to do what Kate did? Oh no, my sister is going to freak out!' She was making less and less sense as she went on, her thoughts all coming out of her mouth as she thought them. This too Thráin had seen before.

'A child?' Lord Elrond asked. 'This I did not foresee.'

Thráin did not bother with an answer to that. 'Where is Gandalf?' he asked bluntly.

To his surprise, the elf answered with only a tenth of his usual haughtiness. 'On an errand in the west. He has not been here for many months, but he sent word that he would come hither as soon as he was able.' There was not even a word about how it was no business of the dwarves to pry into his affairs. He must have been shaken indeed.

But not nearly as shaken as the intended advisor. She had surrendered to tears and though the air was pleasant enough, she was shaking like a leaf in a storm. She was a grown woman, with a child, but as she stood there, she seemed but a child herself. She was alone in this world, without friends, without answers and perhaps even without hope. But not without kin, Thráin knew. It had to count for something.

'Can you undo this?' he demanded. 'Send her home to her family. This was badly done.' Very badly done. He would see it rectified before the sun set.

Elrond shook his head. 'This goes beyond even my skill.' It was as direct an answer as he was likely to give. Maybe it was pity that moved him. Thráin did neither know nor care, for it was of no use to him. The answer he wanted to hear was not forthcoming. It was not much of a surprise, but still it angered him. And it angered him more that the one who could be held responsible was not here to account for his actions.

'What will you do then?' Thráin asked. After all, this was his house. His word was law. And though he had not brought Beth and her son here himself, he was not innocent in the matter either. He had known of it, and approved of it, even if he had not been privy to all the sordid details. And whoever Gandalf's accomplice in all of this was, he most likely dwelled in this very valley. Thráin would find out their identity and speak with them. Forcefully, if necessary.

'Take her to your kin and look after her,' the elf said, which was a fancy way of saying nothing and offloading the problem on the dwarves instead. 'After all, you are her kinsman; she will feel more secure among those she can call family.'

 _And those she hardly knows. We are strangers to her, mere fairy-tales come to life._ Yet she was not much different in his eyes. After all, she came from a world he only knew from his mother's story, a world of mystery, a world he would never have suspected existed were it not for that very story and this woman standing next to him. And showing kindness did not come easy to him. Yet it appeared that for his cousin's sake, he would have to make an effort. It did not help matters that Lord Elrond in his own way had made it very clear that she was Thráin's responsibility. Bloody elves. They twisted everything around. For Durin's sake, they seemed to despise responsibility worse than Thráin did.

'A fine show of hospitality,' he sneered. 'Truly worthy of one of the last great elven kingdoms in Middle Earth! Very well, let it not be said that we do not look after our own. We know we do not have to look to others for aid.'

This finally woke Lord Elrond's wrath. 'Have a care for how you speak in this house, Thráin, son of Thorin.' He did barely even raise his voice, but he had a commanding presence that would have silenced him had he not finished speaking already. 'This was not of my making and though I regret the circumstances that brought your kinswoman to this world, yet there will be many days to come when her aid will be sorely needed.'

Beth looked at him through her tears. 'I can't help,' she said. 'I was never the Tolkien nerd in my family. That was always my brother. You've got the wrong person to do your job for you!' There was a note of hysteria in her voice and her fingers were clutching the material of her skirt so tightly the fabric crumpled.

'I trust Gandalf's judgement,' the elf said. 'He would not have erred in his choice.'

'Your faith in the wizard is great indeed.' As matters stood, Thráin really wanted to fight someone. He'd prefer if it would be Gandalf himself, but if this elf provoked him any further, he might just give in to the urge here and now. 'Does it not bother you that he has ripped Beth and her child from their world, leaving them uprooted in a world not their own?'

The anger left Elrond's eyes, leaving only wisdom and a sadness that Thráin found hard to watch. 'Heed my word, son of Durin, you might be glad of her presence before the fate of the world will be decided.' He gave him a knowing look. 'In the same way, I believe, as you are glad your mother was brought here to prevent a greater evil from happening.'

Big words for one who hadn't known the first thing about his mother until Thráin had decided to enlighten him. 'The end justifies the means, then,' he surmised. Oh, how he spat on such attitudes. It took him all his self-control not to do so now, right at the elf's feet. He still might; he was no diplomat of any talent and he was enraged almost beyond the point of reason.

'Darker things than what has been done today will come to pass,' Lord Elrond spoke. 'Think on this before you speak.' He cast a look at Beth. 'Now calm yourself, Master Dwarf, and see to your kinswoman. We will speak again when Gandalf has returned and when we do, I would advise you to have a care for how you speak to him, for he would bear it ill.'

'I will take my chances,' Thráin said. 'He did not slay my mother for speaking a few long overdue truths about his conduct. Likewise, he will not lay a finger on me.' Especially since deep down, the wizard must know that he had been in the wrong. 'I will take my leave of you, but I invite you to ponder this also: I know Gandalf could not have done this deed alone. I know that his accomplice most likely lives in this house and works under your orders. And Durin's Folk does not forget the names of those who wronged us.'

 _They do not support the darkness._ It was the only reason he had not drawn steel yet. But when all this was over and when the threat had been defeated, there would be a reckoning.

With this, he took Beth's arm and as gently as he was able, led her outside.

He would not be leaving Rivendell for a while yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do bear in mind that Thráin is extremely prejudiced and that what he thinks Elrond says is not necessarily what Elrond means.
> 
> If you've missed it, I've uploaded a chapter in Duly Noted about Elvaethor and his motivations last Wednesday. If you want to know more about him, please go and take a look.
> 
> So far I've introduced a lot of original characters and I dearly hope I have avoided the dreaded Mary-Sue. I'd love to get some feedback on that, if you've got a minute to spare. Are there characters that don't feel real or believable or am I doing okay so far? Do you have favourites?
> 
> Next time: Beth meets dwarves and Dwalin brings some bad news to Erebor.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading. Reviews would be enormously appreciated.


	11. The Burdens of Bad Tidings

_I had never been in shock prior to that day, and so, when it happened, I did not recognise it for what it was. All I knew was that my self-control had finally abandoned me and amidst all the other incoherent thoughts that bounced around my skull I remember thinking I was relieved that at the very least I did not have this breakdown in front of Harry. It would have scared him. Heaven knows it frightened me._

_Normally I pride myself in being a sensible woman who can look at the world rationally and so make sense of it. That worked well enough back in England. Middle Earth did not care how I viewed the world. It turned everything I knew, or rather thought I knew, on its head and it certainly did not care that I was nowhere near ready for it. Whatever had made Gandalf decide I was the right woman for the job, I felt he was very probably wrong. Peter had always been the one spewing Tolkien trivia by the dozen. He knew that kind of stuff and even better, he would have liked running around Middle Earth. If he could see where I had gone, he might have been jealous._

_I however was not pleased and shock had finally caught up with me. Afterwards, when I had recovered some, I would be embarrassed beyond words to have broken down in Lord Elrond's own library in front of the elf himself and Thráin, who hadn't shown much patience with nonsense of any kind. I doubted he knew what to do with a weeping female._

_Surprisingly, he did. He spoke the most acid words I have ever heard to Elrond, somehow convinced that he was the one to blame, although I could not say why exactly, and then he gently took hold of my arm and led me out. I cannot remember the route we took or even how long it took to get there. I remember muttering things in the vein of how I couldn't let Harry see this, because he really shouldn't. Thráin ignored that._

_The dwarves' quarters were warm and cosy, I recall, and before I knew it, I was enveloped in a warm and slightly hairy hug. A blanket was draped over my shoulder and a cup of steaming tea was put into my hands. It was more kindness than I had expected and it did nothing to stem the tide of tears._

_Of course I did not know it then, but I know it now. Dwarves, when they are convinced you are a friend – or kin, which makes you a friend by default – are the most hospitable race in all the world. And when they have decided that you are a friend, they are going to stand by you, come hell or high water. Me being Thráin's cousin of sorts had entitled me to their aid, whether I had in fact asked for it or not. It did not even seem to matter whether I liked it or not. Had I told them I did not need them, they would maybe have been offended, but they would have ignored me all the same._

_Of course, I had only just started on my path to many discoveries about dwarves…_

 

The cold that had sunk deep into her bones only slowly dissipated, no doubt helped by the warm fire, the hot tea and the thick blanket that had been wrapped around her by more gentle hands than Beth had expected. And now that the tears had ceased and the cold slowly went away, she realised that she had made a very bad first impression. She felt mortified that everyone had been able to see that. She had never even been one for big displays of emotions, positive or negative.

'Where's Harry?' she asked, the first thing that came to mind. There were five dwarves in the room, all of them unfamiliar, except for Thráin. Harry and Alfur were nowhere to be seen. Thráin had promised her he would be here. 'I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. I…'

She was going about this all wrong, wasn't she? Oh, how her mother would have lectured her if she'd forgotten her manners like that at home. _And it's no sort of example for Harry._ That thought had kept her more than once from doing or saying something rash. Children aped their parents' behaviour and with Harry only having the single parent, it fell to Beth to set a good example. So, no cursing, no rudeness, no outbursts. So far, she had broken every single rule today.

A white-haired dwarf with a ridiculous hat took pity on her. 'Not to worry, lass. You've had a bit of a shock today.' He patted her shoulder. He probably meant to be gentle, but he didn't know his own strength and the force of it almost sent her falling down. 'Oh, pardon. Don't know me own strength, I do.'

Beth tried for a smile, but it came out more as a grimace.

'Harry?' she asked.

'Out there chasing butterflies with Alfur,' Thráin reported. 'I felt it best to wait to reunite you for a while.' He didn't actually say that he waited until she had herself back under control, but he might as well have. Beth could feel her cheeks colouring bright crimson with embarrassment. Good Lord, she had made a fool out of herself.

Now that she had stopped to think she could hear her son's delighted cries come drifting in from outside. Alfur's voice was there too. They sounded like they had a grand time. If Harry was shocked at all to be somewhere else all of a sudden, he didn't show it. It was however more likely that he thought he'd gone on an actual adventure and he was enjoying every single minute of it.

 _He doesn't know what I do_ , Beth knew. Then again, even if he had, it might not have dampened his spirits. Children were always more resilient. And Harry had not learned yet that one day he would have to be all grown-up and sensible about things.

She nodded. 'Thank you.' She actually meant it too. Without him where would she be? 'Can I…?'

The brown-haired dwarf with the crooked nose was already on his feet. 'Alfur, you and the lad are wanted in here.'

They came in barely a moment later. Harry took one look around the room and then raced towards Beth, holding out a curiously shaped pebble. 'Look, mum! Look what I've found!'

Beth forced herself to smile as she examined it. 'It's beautiful.'

'Aye, with a bit of work we can put it on a necklace and you can wear it.' If Alfur was holding a grudge about how she had talked to him earlier, there was no evidence of it in his voice. 'It'd be a reminder of your first day in this world, lad.'

It had certainly been the right thing to say; Harry began smiling so brightly it would have put the sun to shame. Whatever else one could say about Alfur, he was good with kids. Harry was completely at ease.

The other white-haired dwarf with an impressive beard was beginning to get impatient. 'Well, then, lad, how about it?' he grumbled at Thráin. 'Are you going to do introductions before I die of old age, or not?'

Whatever joking mood Thráin had been in with Alfur earlier, there was nothing left of it now. 'Patience is a virtue, Glóin. You'd do well to practise it.'

'So the elves keep telling us,' Glóin groused. 'And we've been doing our fair share of it these past weeks. Now, hurry it up a bit.' Whatever else he was, good-humoured wasn't on the list for sure.

Thráin ignored the command. Beth had a feeling that her newfound cousin was actually in charge of things around here.

'Beth Andrews,' he said, turning to her, 'meet my kith and kin. This is Glóin, son of Gróin and his son Gimli.' The redhead next to Glóin nodded in Beth's direction. She recognised the name, though, if not the face. It had been years and years since she actually read _Lord of the Rings_ , but she was almost certain this Gimli was in it. 'Alfur you've met,' Thráin went on. 'Then there's Bofur and Halnor.' The first one was the dwarf with the hat and the bright smile and the latter was the one with the crooked nose who had just called her son back inside.

'Pleasure to meet you,' she said, not sure if that would suffice. She knew next to nothing of this world and its customs.

Apparently it did, because Glóin was quite ready to move on to more important matters. 'Alfur said she's related to our advisor and that she's suffered the same harm at the wizard's hands.' It was hard to say what exactly about this had pissed him off, since it seemed to be his default setting. He didn't have much of a face for smiling either, she thought.

'True enough,' Thráin said. 'As I understand it, Beth's grandfather and my mother were siblings.'

Bofur gave Beth a scrutinising glance. 'The curls, aye. She couldn't rightly be anyone else, could she? Most honoured to make your acquaintance, lass.' If Glóin was the Grumpy of the bunch, that would make Bofur the Happy. He hadn't really stopped smiling and she thought he had been the one to hug her when she came in. It had been hard to see through the tears, but he was quite possibly the only one who would even consider hugging a complete stranger just because it looked like she needed it. Now he took her hand and pressed a kiss on it.

'That's all good and well,' Glóin began. Not that he sounded like he thought anything was good and well, but Beth felt a rather important _but_ coming anyway. 'But if she's your mother's kin, what's she doing here? We have seen hide nor hair of the wizard for years and neither have the elves, so how come she's here, eh? That's what I'd like to know.'

'Hold on a moment,' Alfur interrupted. ''Cause I'm not sure I'm following here.' He turned to Thráin. 'You said she's your ma's kin and I can kind of see it too, but you also said she's from another world. So what've I missed? Something about your ma you've never told me? I feel a bit like I've arrived at the theatre late and missed half the performance.'

Crooked Nose arched an eyebrow. 'So you've been to the theatre then, have you? Funny, that. I didn't think you had the patience for it.'

Thráin smiled mischievously. 'Oh, the patience he'll manage. It's the wits to understand the tales that he lacks.'

Alfur frowned, but it was easy enough to see that he didn't actually feel insulted. 'I'm getting it from all sides today, isn't that right, young Master Harry? What say you and I go out and find some friendlier company, eh?'

Harry giggled.

'You'll be hard-pressed to find friendlier folk in this wretched place,' Thráin observed wryly. 'And I would have you be here for this conversation.'

'So you're going to explain this all before nightfall, then?' It was the first time Gimli had opened his mouth. As first impressions went, it was not the most favourable. Gimli seemed only slightly less grumpy than his father. 'I was wondering.'

His father promptly wacked him over the head. 'Manners, lad.' So while his own conduct could apparently be forgiven, when someone else did it, it wasn't tolerated.

Thráin's patience was visibly running out. 'I'd be very glad to, if I was granted the opportunity to speak,' he remarked. 'And the tale of my mother is not mine to tell anyway, Gimli. You'll have to ask your _adad_ ; he was there. So was Bofur.'

Glóin straightened his shoulders and really looked like he was making himself comfortable for a long story.

Thráin must have seen it too. 'The short version will do for now,' he said. 'We've much to discuss before any of us will see a bed tonight.'

Glóin looked displeased, mumbling something about wanting to do something the proper way or not at all. So Bofur stepped in and started talking in his place. Beth forced herself to listen attentively, but she found that she knew most of the story already. She'd read _The Hobbit_ and she had searched through Kate's letters so thoroughly and often for clues that she could have quoted the things in her sleep. But this was the first time that she heard the story when she knew that it was true. And somehow it felt different.

Bofur kept it brief and to the point, giving the summary for most of the tale, detailing only some of the highlights. Glóin couldn't keep entirely quiet and spoke for some time as well and when it turned out he was getting entirely too comfortable hearing the sound of his own voice, Bofur took over again. Even Thráin butted in here and there with a few details. He didn't do it much, but just enough to alert Beth to the fact that he knew the tale very well. He could have probably given the telling as well as his older friends, maybe even better, but he elected not to.

'She spoke of things still to happen in the future at times,' Thráin finished. 'Though there were no words in the book she brought to support that. My brother reckons that there's another one.'

'And that brings us to you, lass.' Bofur was kind, Beth realised. If Glóin would have said the same words, there was a good chance she would have started running in panic. She still wanted to do that, but something about the way the words were spoken and the sympathetic look in Bofur's eyes made her stay where she was.

'You're certain Lord Elrond mentioned that she was an advisor?' Glóin questioned, looking at Thráin.

'I haven't gone deaf, nor forgetful.' Thráin seemed to take offence at the suggestion he had misheard. 'He knew she was an advisor.'

Beth had heard enough. 'I'm not,' she said. 'I haven't read the book for years.'

Thráin looked her in the eyes. 'But you have knowledge of it.' He didn't ask, he concluded.

'I have it with me.' She hated admitting that, because it meant that Gandalf knew what he was doing after all. It made her feel sick to know that it was planned, that it had been planned for months. She had gotten the letter in the spring. 'Someone sent it to me. I thought it was a clue, because it was Kate's old copy.'

Glóin frowned. 'So you knew of her?'

How to explain it? Fortunately Thráin hadn't questioned it. He had wondered about other things and he hadn't asked about how she had gotten her hands on the letters. Maybe he had just assumed they were an heirloom or maybe he had just been too preoccupied thinking about how to best chew out Lord Elrond.

'I was writing a book about her,' she replied.

Bofur frowned. 'How'd you do that, then?' he asked, genuinely puzzled. 'She lived most of her life here.'

Talking about her work, that she could do, at length and in great detail. And she had studied the Kate Andrews case for a long, long time. 'I write about crimes,' she replied. 'And Kate Andrews was a very high profile case seventy-seven years ago. A lot of people were looking for her and trying to find out what had happened to her. She also happened to be the family mystery. Her disappearance was never solved.' _And I convinced myself that I would be the one to solve it. More fool me._ 'So I have been reading everything I could about her. The daughter of the private detective hired by my grandfather and his father had kept all the material and copies of her letters were among them.'

She must have said something wrong; Bofur's smile had disappeared and Thráin had started frowning again.

'If they had the letters, why would you call it unsolved?' Glóin was the one to ask.

Despite her intention not to do anything that might cause offence, she snorted. 'It was a book, a story book, fiction, not real. People believed it was a trick of a psychopath, who had forced her to write those letters for fun, to make people run around like headless chickens. No one ever travels between worlds and those who claim that do, are nut cases.'

Thráin seemed sad. 'She feared that, that no one would believe her. We never understood why.'

What kind of world was this? 'So, if the situations were reversed, would you believe it?'

Thráin seemed to find this a stupid question. 'Why would I not?'

It came to her then. 'Yes, but your world has magic in it, with wizards and everything. My world doesn't.' And she would have paid good money to keep her life a magic-free zone. But if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. _And they don't, so stop dreaming._

Bofur's eyes reflected a deep compassion. 'They never knew then. Her kin.'

Beth smiled, suddenly relieved that to this she had a good answer. 'My grandfather believed it. I know that. I don't know about his parents, but he did.' Even if only because it was a more pleasant alternative than the far more likely reality. Beth could not blame him for that, although she had thought it more than just a little naïve since she had first heard it. But he had gotten some comfort from it and now she knew that he had every right to. Against all her beliefs, it was all true.

Thráin relaxed. 'Good,' he said. 'Good.'

Bofur was already ahead of him. 'Will the same happen when you don't return?' he asked.

Damn him for being so observant. She had actually managed to focus on something else for more than a minute altogether. Now the panic returned full force. How long had she been here? How long until Mary would start to get seriously worried? An hour, maybe two? After that, she would start texting. When an answer wouldn't come, she would start calling. Of course, she was out of reach, a whole world out of reach. And when the phone went unanswered she would call the police. The police would discover that she had entered the room – CCTV would confirm that; Beth had seen a camera in the corridor – but had never left. The room itself probably looked like a hurricane had gone through it, because well, it had. But there would be no trace of Harry or Beth. And then the whole circus would begin and it would end like Kate's case. It would become a cold case and eventually both police and family would give up hope that she could ever be found.

Her hands shook. 'Yes.' It was barely more than a whisper. 'My sister, she knows I'm meeting someone called G. Grey, who claimed he had information about Kate's case that no one else did. She's been nagging me about it for weeks. She didn't trust someone who only sent a letter.' _Now I know she was right to._ Beth would take all the _I told you so_ s that Mary could throw her way if only she was back home again.

'So, we wait until the wizard finally gets here, tell him he's behaved like a sneaky backstabbing elf and get him to send you back home.' Alfur clearly didn't see the problem. Beth didn't think he was really as dim-witted as Thráin had playfully accused him of being just a short while ago, but he wasn't one for complicated plans either. And Beth rather questioned the wisdom of him insulting the elves in their own city, though nobody else seemed bothered.

As for the elves, she didn't know what to make of them just yet. Her current companions weren't big fans obviously, but Beth wasn't sure she shared that opinion. Lord Elrond seemed wise and sympathetic, even if he was unable to help her. It wasn't his fault. Other than that, she had very little to base an opinion on and so she refrained. It was her job after all to hear all sides of the story, to do thorough research before she came to a conclusion.

'It doesn't work like that,' Glóin said immediately. 'I've lost count of how many times our advisor begged him to send her back, but Gandalf never listened. He won't start listening now, I tell you.'

Beth had expected that. She had read the letters after all. Still, it was a disappointment to hear it, as it were, from the horse's mouth. _No hope_ , she thought. _There is just no hope._ What was she supposed to do next? And, more importantly, what was she to do with Harry? From the moment she realised where she was, she had also realised what she was there for. Kate had been sent as an advisor on a quest. Now history repeated itself. But there was no way in hell that she would ever consent to her little boy facing that kind of danger. _What am I going to do?_

Glóin looked at her. 'You said you had the book?'

Beth nodded. 'I do.'

For the first time since she met him he looked at her with something that with some imagination might pass for sympathy. 'If I were you, I'd start reading.'

* * *

 

There was nothing worse than having to host elves. Jack knew this long before today, but being forced to live through another reminder did not improve his mood. They did not like the food, they did not like the music, they did not like the company and they most certainly did not like the food fights. They turned up their noses at everything they encountered and in order to not fly off the handle and cause diplomatic scandal before the meetings had even begun, Jack kept his nose planted firmly in his tankard. Next to him, Flói was doing the same, although with more cheer than Jack could summon up this evening.

'It's a good night for drinking,' his friend declared. 'To Elvaethor the Insect, Dwarf-friend and Annoyer of Elves!'

Elvaethor, seated on the bench across the table, raised his tankard and toasted him. 'I'll drink to that, Master Flói.' He promptly did. To be honest, Jack had not ever seen his elven friend in such high spirits before. Then again, Thranduil's face when Elvaethor offered his services to Thoren had apparently been a sight to behold. He wished he had been there for it. And since Thoren had looked completely flabbergasted, according to the rumours, there was no way Thranduil could accuse him of being in on the whole scheme. Thoren didn't do guile and deceit. He hadn't the nature for it, nor the inclination. No, that sort of thing was best left to elves and men.

Not that the elf opposite him behaved much like an elf. In truth, he was acting far more like a dwarf. 'To homes lost and homes found,' he said, raising his tankard, before draining it.

'Good one,' Lufur agreed. 'You are most welcome here.'

The elf nodded solemnly. 'I know. And it is good to be here.'

'No leaving this time,' Jack's Aunt Thora sing-songed. 'And I'll have you know I will have that dance of you before the night is out.'

Uncle Ori roused himself at that. 'What's this dance I'm hearing about?'

'Our friend here thinks he can get away with all that elvish swaying and call it dancing,' she explained, grinning mischievously. 'But as he's now officially one of us, he'll need to learn to dance properly. But have no fear, there's some talent there. We will make a dancer of him yet.'

'And a dwarf even sooner,' Lufur announced. 'By my beard, friend, you drink like one already!'

Thora perked up. 'Oh, now there's a lovey tune. Mr Elvaethor, allow me the honour of teaching you how it's done.'

Elvaethor rose from his seat, gracefully still even though he had been matching Lufur drink for drink since the feast started several hours ago. Lufur was quite inebriated; he was less coordinated and his speech had started to slur somewhat. Elvaethor on the other hand looked like he hadn't had a drink all night.

'I suppose I shall, my fair lady of the quick feet,' he said eloquently. 'Though I fear I cannot in all honesty call this stomping around the room a dance.'

Thora took it with grace. 'You haven't had enough to drink, then. Come on. Off we go!' She winked at Ori. 'And I shall be put out indeed if my husband won't have a go at it with me on the dancefloor afterward. Or anywhere else he pleases.'

Uncle Ori blushed and Flói pretended to gag. 'Ma, can you not do that kind of thing in public, please? I'm still here.' Jack supposed that at least he'd had the good fortune his parents kept that sort of thing for behind closed doors.

Aunt Thora only smiled. 'I know, dearest. You're quite hard to miss. Now, be a good lad and make sure your brother doesn't get in trouble.' She cast a look across the hall where cousin Lifur was demonstrating his lack of maturity by making a fool out of himself on the dancefloor. It was a running joke that he could not hold his liquor and yet kept trying to demonstrate that he could, with varying kinds of disaster as a result. 'Your kingly cousin will be put out if he vomits on one of the elves.'

With that she was gone, dragging Elvaethor behind her. He made a good show of looking resigned to his fate, were it not that he was grinning so wide Jack wouldn't be surprised if his face split open.

Flói cast one look at his younger brother and then turned back to his ale, clearly giving it up for a lost cause. With good reason.

'Not in the babysitting mood?' Jack inquired.

Flói smirked. 'I'm still here, aren't I?' Before Jack could misinterpret that, and he knew he was, he added: 'Only I don't think your brother would like it any better if you started punching elves.'

Jack arched an eyebrow. 'Elvaethor's still in one piece, isn't he?' Although clearly not for Thora's lack of trying to sneakily tackle him.

'I meant proper elves,' Flói clarified. 'Elvaethor's no proper elf. He's a dwarf. Just doesn't look like one, but that's, as my ma says, a minor detail.'

To Jack it was not. 'Not everyone sees it that way.'

'Aye, you being the only one.' Flói seemed a whole lot less amused all of a sudden. 'Doesn't matter what you look like, Jack. Folks haven't minded for years. They're used to you and to all those other dwarves that don't really look it. Your ma was pretty loved, as I recall.'

'Eventually,' Jack added sourly. He remembered a time when that was not the case.

'Well, it's the end result that counts.' Flói possessed the rare skill to make it perfectly clear that he was not fooling around, but still sound very calm and very relaxed. He'd inherited that from his mother. 'And people are mighty fond of your sister and Elvaethor and, Maker save us all, even you.'

'They never say so.' That was true, so where Flói got his ideas from, he'd never know.

'Well, they daren't say so, not so long as you'll keep looking at them like you're wanting to chop their heads off if they speak to you,' his cousin said sensibly. 'So, stop frowning and crack a smile once in a while. Perhaps you could, perish the thought, even learn to actually _enjoy_ yourself.'

He ought to have said something to that, but he did not feel like it. Maybe Flói was right; he ought to smile more, make himself more agreeable to folks, but it was not in his nature to be easily content. Besides, he was convinced Flói was wrong anyway. His kin liked him well enough, but most of the population did not. Making his cousin see that on the other hand was more of a challenge than Jack felt up to at the moment and so, in order to keep his mouth well occupied, he took another sip of wine. It wasn't the strong Dorwinian stuff the elves liked, and Maker be praised for that. He would have passed out beneath the table by now if it had been. Though that prospect sounded more tempting by the minute.

Fortunately he didn't have to resort to that just yet. He noticed Dwalin entering the hall, looking worried. Not that other folk would identify it as such, but Jack had been around him for most of his life. He remembered riding around on Dwalin's shoulders when he was just a lad and actually small enough to indulge in such things, when he thought it would be a boon to be so tall so that he could see over everyone's heads. How times had changed.

Dwalin appeared to be looking for Thoren, but he was caught up in conversation with one of the men from Dale and the elvish advisor known as Lainor. The first might have been a conversation partner of choice, but the second was surely not. Lainor loathed dwarves and dwarves loathed Lainor. It was a mutual dislike that ran deep. Jack could not be certain who hated this strange turn of events more: Thoren or Lainor. Maybe the man had unknowingly thought it was a good idea to bring them together in conversation. If it had been his notion, it wouldn't be long before he understood the error of his ways.

Jack stood up, waved to get Dwalin's attention and motioned for him to come over. Thoren wouldn't have the time anytime soon, Duria was making a good show of being a lady in front of the men of Esgaroth and Cathy had dragged her husband onto the dancefloor. They both dearly loved to dance, especially with one another, so chances of them making an end of it any time soon were non-existent. And of course Fíli was nowhere to be seen either. Dealing with any issues that arose in the meantime fell to him.

'Problems?' he asked.

Dwalin snorted. 'Aren't there always? You done with that, lad?' Before Jack could formulate a reply, he found his tankard gone. 'Don't mind if I do,' Dwalin said before finishing it.

Jack grimaced. 'I wasn't done.'

'Yes, you are, for you'll need your wits about you and I haven't the patience to sober you up.' Why folk always insisted on being sensible, he would never know. It was bad enough that Duria did it all the time, but now Flói and Dwalin got it into their heads they should have a go at it as well?

'I might forgive you if your news is important enough,' Jack said, controlling his temper. It had better be.

Dwalin dropped the amusement. 'Easterling scouts,' he reported. 'A good ten miles east. One of our patrols came upon them not six hours past.'

'Durin's stinking beard.' That was bad news indeed, especially with all the leaders here for the talks. If one of those Easterling generals suddenly got the bright idea to go taking out the leaders of his enemies, he would find them nicely convened in one place. That would make his job that much easier.

'Just so,' Dwalin agreed.

'What happened?' Flói asked.

'They were a group of six and our patrol took care of them.' Dwalin looked unremorseful and he was right. This was sooner than expected. Thoren had been dreading an attack all summer, but when summer slowly made way for autumn, he had thought they would at least be granted respite until the spring.

'I suppose I had better go and ruin Thoren's night then,' he said.

Dwalin looked at Thoren and observed: 'There won't be much to ruin; the Lainor mosquito has gotten hold of him.'

Good thing there weren't any elves nearby to hear that unflattering nickname. Not that it wasn't true, but the elves would take offence. Then again, taking offence came natural to them.

'Any chance that group of scouts wasn't the only one?' Lufur suddenly didn't sound as drunk as he had a minute ago.

Dwalin snorted. 'Was there ever a chance of it being otherwise?'

'No, there is not.' Elvaethor may belong under the Mountain now, but he was still an elf with the ability to sneak up on people without them noticing. It was even more of a feat, because he was easily the tallest citizen of Erebor with flaming red hair at that. And still folk overlooked him.

Dwalin barely reacted. 'Evening.'

'Likewise, Master Dwalin.' Elvaethor's cheer was clearly not about to be extinguished by bad news. 'The Easterlings send always more than one group. There will be at least one other, even more if they want to be thorough.'

'My brother probably really enraged Sauron,' Jack observed. 'I'd say more.'

'Well, there are not as many as there were,' Flói pointed out. 'And there's not much that they're going to be able to do, not with our patrols guarding the area so closely.'

Dwalin did not share his optimism and neither did Flói's own mother. 'Well, I for one wouldn't like them to find out that we're all here making an alliance against them. The Easterlings might not quite agree with such a course of action.' She was sweating and red in the face after the dance, but she was all business now that there was a need.

Jack nodded; he had been thinking along the same lines. 'We must double the patrols. News of this meeting cannot reach the Enemy's ears.'

'Well, the way I hear tell it, he's got no ears, only the one eye.' Trust Flói to actually try and turn it into a joke. 'Life must be hard on him, being so crippled.'

It was not well received. There was a sudden increase of unamused stares all around and Uncle Ori, who was generally kind and soft-spoken, said: 'There are matters you cannot jest about, Flói. If you do not know enough to speak of it in company, then hold your tongue.' For a moment there it actually wasn't so hard to see he was Uncle Dori's brother.

'No need to get yourself all worked up, da,' Flói grumbled. 'Just trying to lighten the mood.' He was doing that so often it must have become second nature.

'Inappropriate, lad,' Dwalin said, quite unnecessarily in Jack's opinion. He gave Jack a scrutinising look. 'So, what are we to do about the remaining scouts?'

Jack only frowned. 'You must be mistaking me for my older brother if you think I'm the one giving the orders.'

His father's oldest friend looked at Flói in exasperation. 'He been like that all night?' How Jack hated it when people talked about him as if he wasn't there, as if he was someone who needed constant supervision.

If Flói took notice of his withering look at all, he didn't show. He certainly did not let it influence his actions. 'Pretty much,' he said. 'Ale doesn't help matters. Not does wine.'

Aunt Thora was the only one who noticed Jack was about to explode in truly memorable fashion, so she intervened. 'Well, here's the thing, Jack,' she said. 'Your brother is a little occupied at the moment and I wouldn't trust military matters to either of your sisters even if they were the last dwarves under the Mountain, so that means you're in charge.'

Jack meant to suggest that she might want to consult with Fíli on the matter instead, but the words never left his mouth. Some other words did. 'Who would take orders from me?' That had not been meant to be translated into the spoken word; he must have consumed more wine than he had thought. Then again, it was hard to keep track on a night like this.

But what he said made sense. His older siblings had the advantage of looking like dwarves, even though both Thoren and Thráin were a little taller than was usual. But Jack looked like a man. And they never let him forget it for even a minute.

'I told you, you're making a fuss over nothing,' Flói said. 'You're the brother of the King under the Mountain, aren't you? And the son of the previous King? I mean, it's what I've always thought, unless my memory's going.'

'Well, then mine must be faulty too,' Lufur declared. 'And it's not. Pretty sure I knew you from the days you were a tiny red-faced babe with a powerful set of lungs keeping your ma and da up night after night.' He grinned cheekily. 'You haven't changed much. Though don't ask me to carry you up and down the corridor to calm you down. Think you're a bit too old for that.' He nodded, as if this settled the manner. 'So, we ask you again. What are we to do?'

For the record, Jack did not like this. He was not even remotely pleased by this development. He could take orders, not give them. But his friends weren't giving him much of a choice. He hated that even worse.

'We take them out,' he said. 'Small parties that can go around undetected.' If he pretended to know what he was doing, maybe folk would believe he did. That he was practically quoting various guards would hopefully go unnoticed. 'Dwalin, you get the people. Might be a good idea to get Uncle Nori, that way he won't make things harder on Thoren.' Because his annoying habit to take things that did not technically speaking belong to him had not lessened with time. 'Maybe Elvaethor too, if he's willing.' It would be a boon to have him; he was a good tracker and pleasant company on the road as well.

'Certainly,' the elf said. 'It might be wise not to confront my former king too much. It would make him quite unpleasant.'

'Understatement of the century, that,' said Nara, Lufur's wife. She'd just joined the conversation, but seemed to know what was going on almost right away. 'I'm sure we don't have a lemon in all of Erebor, so where he's getting them, Maker only knows, but he's been chewing on them all day long.'

'Quite,' Elvaethor said. 'It is my belief he secretly brought them all the way from his palace to Erebor. You see, it aids him in maintaining that sour look. Prevents him from smiling.' He was grinning broadly. Well, that would be where all those stories about elves being silly got started; Elvaethor must have been a very busy elf. And he was the first elf Jack had ever met who did silly things like that. All the others only looked at him with disdain.

Dwalin did not have the patience to deal with it. He turned aback to Jack. 'Any other orders?' he asked.

He sensed an opportunity. 'We leave at dawn,' he decreed.

After all, it was for the best that he would not be here for these talks either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: the dwarves lecture the Master on the finer points of orc diet and Duria strongly feels she is the only one under the Mountain with any sense. Also, there will be an important meeting.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Reviews would be much appreciated.


	12. Game of Words

_Of all these goings-on in Erebor I was very much unaware. I had barely even begun to wrap my head around the madness that was Middle Earth. Some people might wonder why I did not try to deny longer that I was in Rivendell and the answer is simple. When you're there, it does not feel like any other place you have ever been. True, stand in any other part of Middle Earth and you might fool yourself into thinking you're in an uninhabited part of the world maybe, or that you have accidentally stumbled into a medieval re-enactment of some sort. But Rivendell is different. It's in a sense almost alien. There is peace there, a quiet, a sense of just being. It's serene, yes, that would be the word I am looking for. The colours are brighter too and you can feel the magic. It's not very obvious, but always at the tip of your fingers and you can taste it on your tongue. I suppose that is what gives Rivendell its air of serenity, that cannot be found elsewhere._

_It also helped me sleep; despite my anxiety I slept deep and woke better rested than I had been in years. What little hope I had that it was all a dream, it fled in the early morning light. It was all still as real as it had been the previous day. And it became increasingly clear that an instant solution would not be found. I had been warned by all the dwarves not to hold on to the hope that Gandalf's expected arrival would bring any change in my situation, but I did all the same. Surely it could not have been his intention to take Harry as well. Surely he didn't know I had a child. If he had, he would have chosen Peter for the job. And it wasn't too late yet to set the record straight, was it?_

_Nevertheless I took Glóin's words to heart. I wasn't quite ready to walk back into that library after the spectacle I had made there on the day of my arrival and_ The Lord of the Rings _was the only book I had to keep myself entertained. Harry was off with Alfur, who was glad to have something to do, and where the other dwarves went off to during the day, I didn't know. I didn't exactly feel comfortable asking either. For all their kindness, they still made me feel uncertain. They were in many things quite similar to humans, but then, when I thought I had gotten the hang of communicating with them, I said something they didn't like and I had to start all over again. It didn't help that I didn't know what exactly it was that I had said wrong._

_Communicating with dwarves is almost a form of art that takes a long time to master. But then, talking to dwarves is easy compared to interacting with elves, as on the other side of the Misty Mountains the King under the Mountain was about to find out…_

 

The day did not begin well. It started off with the unpleasant discovery that Jack had invited himself along on the trip to take out the Easterling scouts. She understood his reasoning. In fact it showed some remarkable self-knowledge to remove himself from a situation that might cause him to do undefined but most certainly irreparable damage to the talks. It would have been nice to know of it beforehand, though. Now she only found out when he had already left. He hadn't even left a note; she'd heard the news from Lufur when she asked where her younger brother might be found on this fine morning.

Of course, fine was not the word Duria would use to describe aforementioned morning. Thoren looked like he was nursing a hangover – exactly how much he had consumed last night to become like this she didn't want to know – and many of her friends did not look much better.

 _They ought to know better than to try and drink the elves under the table by now_ , she thought furiously. It was always the same. They should know that the elves always won. They had an unfair natural advantage that dwarves lacked. Of course this had not stopped Thoren.

Speaking off. He was making his way over to her, squinting against the influx of light, with Halin and Narvi following in his wake, both of them imitating their king. Halin was rubbing his temples in hopes of relief, but obviously found none.

'Tell me true, did the Mountain fall on my head?' Thoren asked.

'If it did, I fear my head was placed right next to yours,' Halin responded. Duria frowned at this newfound familiarity. Last she checked, Thoren and Halin had tolerated each other at best. _Maker have mercy, what happened last night?_

'It was a whole mountain range,' Narvi declared. He was still in yesterday's clothes and his hair was sticking out in all directions. Well, if he was arriving with his brothers-in-law, that would explain why his bed had not been slept in. _What have these three been up to?_

There was many a day when Duria silently lamented her lot in life. It was no easy task being the sensible one in the family. The only sensible one, it would seem. Thoren was getting himself drunk on the night before the talks, Thráin couldn't stay still for more than a minute, now Cathy had discovered she liked wandering off and Jack had gone and done a disappearing act without telling any of them.

She held out the goblets in their direction. 'Drink,' she commanded.

They only now noticed her. 'Duria!' Narvi said. 'Didn't see you there.'

He was her husband and she loved him dearly, but Mahal help her when he was being a fool. 'Having one's eyes open does improve one's skills of observation,' she replied.

Halin wrinkled his nose and looked suspiciously at the brew. 'What in Durin's name is that?'

Thoren saved her the bother of answering. 'Aunt Thora's hangover remedy,' he moaned. 'Stinks like troll's shit and tastes worse.'

'You know that, do you?' Halin very probably attempted to joke – and in his current condition did a very poor job of it – whilst taking a second sniff and doing a very quick step backwards.

'The things Thráin would make you do on a dare…' Thoren trailed off. He took a deep breath and accepted one of the goblets. 'It does get rid of the headache,' he allowed. 'Hold your nose, don't think and swallow as quickly as you can.'

'Does it improve the taste that way?' Halin was the only one who was still not convinced and so Duria took the decision away from him. She pushed the goblet into his hands and let go. Instinct made her brother-in-law grab it before it dropped.

'Not a bit,' she replied briskly. 'Or so I have been told.' She turned to Thoren. 'What in Durin's name were you thinking, Thoren? Getting drunk last night of all nights? Have you forgotten how much is at stake?'

To her surprise, Halin answered. 'Not for a moment, I assure you, my lady.'

It explained nothing. It justified even less. 'Care to explain?' she asked acidly. She had more or less forgiven Halin for their childhood enmity, but he was by no means a friend of hers. Like Thoren, she tolerated him. Unlike Thoren, getting drunk with him once did not change that. At all.

'We were interrogating Lainor.' Narvi jumped to Halin's defence.

Maker grant her patience. 'You attempted to interrogate an elf by getting him _drunk_?'

Thoren had the nerve to smirk at her. 'Who says we didn't succeed? That Dorwinian wine really works wonders on them, you know. How did that saying of _amad_ 's go again? He sang like a…' Here his memory failed him, so he settled on, 'like some sort of bird by the time we were done.' The three of them were looking ridiculously pleased with themselves, well considering they were dwarves with a hangover.

If they had not been in a public place, Duria would have punched them all on principle.

'That's what you were drinking?' she hissed in outrage. 'The cursed Dorwinian stuff?' It sufficed to make even the elves forget their dignity. It did a lot worse to their kind.

'Don't make such a fuss,' Narvi said. 'We didn't touch it. Most of the time.'

There would be time for shouting later, she promised herself. Better still, she might let it "accidentally" slip within Uncle Dori's hearing. That would serve them right. In the meantime, there were things to be done and meetings to be attended. And they were already running slightly late. 'He had better something useful to say,' she said.

'Oh, he did,' Thoren said. 'I told you he was singing some very pretty tunes. Well, not literally.'

'Though he did do that later on, if memory serves,' Narvi added. 'Oh, wait, you were passed out by then.'

Duria would have felt better not knowing that. 'What. Did. He. Say?'

'Just that Thranduil is a tiny bit angry over Elvaethor's change of loyalties and that he's going to stall for as long as possible, but he won't run out either, because that would mean he'd lose face.' For someone who generally did not have a mind for politics, Narvi sure remembered a lot. Then again, she wouldn't have married him if he had been an idiot. She couldn't abide the presence of fools, which rather made her wonder why she hadn't given up on her own siblings yet. 'And they're actually really worried about Dol Guldur.'

'So, if we can cut the whining short, we might be able to get some elvish help here and we can send some dwarves there to have a wee bit of a look at their defences,' Halin continued. 'Because I've had a look around when I was there and the palace is strong enough, but the rest is a disaster waiting to happen.'

'You can't beat dwarvish work,' Narvi pointed out. 'I never did see what all those little decorations were good for.'

'The elves think they're pretty to look at,' Duria explained. To elves that was reason enough. Duria also thought elves were fools, but that was another matter.

'And as much use as a nightdress in a thunderstorm, if you're asking me,' Thoren said. Duria dreaded to think where he had picked up this charming piece of wisdom. 'If we offer help first before we actually go asking for it, we might actually get something done before those cursed Easterlings decide they're tired of banging on Dáin's gates and move on to ours.'

'Such words of wisdom,' a pleasant voice remarked. Duria turned around and came face to face with the new Master of Esgaroth. His manners had been agreeable enough the night before, but it had not escaped Duria's notice that he had not made any promises and on the whole had remained very vague. And now he was found eavesdropping. He was just as shifty as the elves.

'Good morning, Lord Ingor,' Thoren said. 'I trust you slept well?'

'Very well,' was the reply. 'I must also give my compliments for the excellent feast of last night. You dwarves know how to give a proper celebration.'

'A mere welcoming feast.' Thoren must have picked up on the man's manners. They did not feel entirely genuine. 'We will not celebrate until such time as an alliance is signed.' That may have been too blunt. Then again, Thoren wasn't one for subtleties. 'If not, all cause for celebration will dry up as soon as the Enemy overruns this area.'

There was a sliver of ice in Ingor's eyes. 'As I hear tell it, you could have prevented such a turn of events. After all, it was you who antagonised the envoy who came in peace to your gates.'

Duria had to bite her tongue in order not to say something that would end the talks before they had even begun. The man had a nerve, all but accusing them of starting the war themselves. He was truly naïve if he thought that Sauron would let this region be. Duria knew her history. The Lord of Mordor would accept nothing less than complete domination over all of Middle Earth. He could not afford to let one region alone while there were people there who could oppose him. And oppose him they would, not out of the goodness of their hearts, but out of self-preservation. Dwarves took ill to being ruled over by someone who was not one of their own.

And Thoren took badly to allegations of the kind Lord Ingor had just made. 'You would be wrong in thinking Sauron would ever pass by your little town,' he spoke icily.

'Would I?' the Master asked. 'He would benefit enormously from such an arrangement, I should think. After all, his minions need to eat.'

'Aye, his minions need to eat,' Narvi said. He had shown remarkable restraint by not opening his mouth before now. There was however a limit to his tolerance of mannish ignorance and it had just been reached. 'Do you know what orcs like best for supper?'

'I cannot say I am well acquainted with the diet of orcs,' Lord Ingor replied. How he kept his voice so pleasant while his words were so poisonous, Duria would never know. 'But do enlighten me, if you would be so kind, Master Dwarf.'

Narvi didn't need telling twice. 'People, my lord,' he said. 'They care not if these are elves, dwarves or indeed men.'

If the colour of the Master's skin was any indication, he had not been aware of this. And why would he? Erebor and Dale had done more than their parts in these past decades to keep the horrors away from the town on the Long Lake. And when there was no immediate threat, the people of the Lake liked nothing better than to pretend the rest of the world was just as safe as their little town. They had forgotten what it had been like before Erebor and Dale had been restored, when orcs roamed unchecked and took what they liked if they happened to be passing by, if the dragon did not take it first.

Men were forgetful like that. They did not remember their history like dwarves and elves did. Then again, many of them were illiterate, so even if one man wrote down the events of his time for the next generation, there was no guarantee the next generation would be able to read it. The men of Dale were better. They benefitted of the closeness of Erebor in more ways than just trade. And though Esgaroth was only a few days' ride away, the differences between the two were startling.

Halin had clearly decided the Master had not been properly terrified just yet. 'Trolls do have a taste for the flesh of men as well,' he told the man. 'Our informants have brought back reports that they too are employed in Sauron's service and in numbers larger than ever before in recorded history. They have no need of trade, my lord. They take what they like. They do not pay.' He did not seem nearly as hungover as he had been just a few minutes past.

'Orcs and goblins are roaming the Misty Mountains in numbers again,' Thoren picked up where his brother by marriage had left off. 'Reports have reached us that armies are amassing in both the East and Mordor. Read the signs, my lord, read them well. And then decide where you stand.' He too had sobered up in a matter of minutes. And Duria knew that look. Her oldest brother could do diplomacy, but he could no more abide fools than she could, though generally he knew to hide it better. Except today he was not at his best, still recovering from a hangover he shouldn't have had in the first place and there was a man trying to convince them it would be best to have Mordor for a trading partner. That he actually said this out of actual ignorance made it all ten times worse.

Of course Lord Ingor did not take this advice the way it was meant. 'Are you threatening me?'

'I am telling you the facts such as they are,' Thoren replied icily. 'You may do with that as you see fit. All the advice I would give you is to remember that Erebor would offer your people shelter and defence, while the elves have a long history of not lifting so much as a finger to help the people they call allies.'

He turned on his heels and gestured for the other three to follow him. They did, leaving the Master alone to give those words the consideration they needed. Duria had agreed with them whole-heartedly. Of course she did, for they were the truth. But that did not mean she could not recognise the foolishness in speaking them so bluntly and in such a way that they could be misinterpreted as a threat or an attempt at blackmail. But Thoren was getting desperate, and he had not even heard her news yet.

He promptly asked about it. 'Has anyone seen Jack?' he asked.

'He has gone,' Duria reported. She could not keep the sour tone out of her voice. 'Lufur told me just a quarter of an hour past.'

Thoren rubbed his temples. 'Gone where?' he asked wearily.

'East,' she said. 'Dwalin returned last night with news of Easterling scouts too close to the Mountain.' She wished there was a way to bring this news that would soften the blow somewhat. Her brother's nerves had been frayed quite enough already and the pressure he was under was immense. She would not add to his burdens if she could help it. But she could not and so it was perhaps best to get it all over with. Whether she broke it to him gently or not would make the news she brought no less urgent and no less alarming. 'The patrol that found them disposed of them, but Dwalin thought there was sufficient reason to believe that was not the only group.' She had taken his word for it; her interest was in academic problems, not in military matters. But even Duria had realised the importance of the message.

Her thoughts wandered back to the conversation she'd had with Fíli about her mother and the knowledge she had possessed some months back. If only there was such a book, telling them what to do. She would feel reassured if she knew there was a possibility all would end well. And if a book did not offer such a possibility, then people could learn from the mistakes described in the pages and turn the future towards a different path. Surely it would be a reassurance to Thoren to have such a thing. He needed the guidance, but he needed the hope even more. And Duria was not suited to give him what he needed.

'So soon.' Thoren looked solemn before, but he was outdoing himself. 'I had hoped we had more time.' He shook his head, only barely stopping himself from pulling his hand through his hair as he was wont to do when he was thinking. 'I knew I should have played for time with Sauron's envoy.'

'You should have done no such thing,' Halin disagreed, making Duria marvel once more at the quite alarming change in her brother-in-law. What had happened last night? 'He was offering us insult and you were having none of it. That is as it should be. He should not have presumed that we would sink so low as to betray a friend. You did well.' Duria's eyebrows must surely have migrated all the way up to her hairline, if not beyond, by now. Approval from Lady Nai's son? What had the world come to?

'For all the good that it has done us,' Thoren snorted. 'I presume Jack has gone off to deal with the remaining scouts?' He had turned back to Duria and there was some worry in his voice now. He was right to be worried, too, because Jack could be reckless and idiotic, especially on one of his bad days.

'He has Flói with him,' said Duria. She had heard herself say those exact words so many times, but it was the best she had to offer. Any dwarf worth his beard would give his life in defence of their brother, but only Flói had the capacity to break through the walls of his mind and make him listen. And that was needed more than anything else. 'He will return.' And now for the even more unpleasant news. 'Elvaethor has gone with them. He felt it wiser to not confront his king unnecessarily.'

True. There was wisdom in such a course of action. But Thranduil would be out of humour whether Elvaethor was there or not and Thoren craved the assistance of his oldest friend. He had tried to hide his relief yesterday, but Duria knew him well enough to see through it. He'd been given the gift of a friend that he could rely on, that he could look to for guidance and advice. And now he had left already.

'I see,' he said. 'Any others I would miss?' Aye, he was vexed and hurt.

'Dwalin has taken some of the guard,' Duria replied. She tried not to feel the hurt when he so easily overlooked her once more. She was his sister, but he never truly confided in her. He trusted her to see to the practical matters, but matters that were close to his heart were discussed with others. 'I do not know all of the names. But Lufur is still here.' That ought to be a consolation.

'I see,' Thoren said again.

He did, but he clearly wasn't pleased about it. He had all the support of the Mountain at his disposal and it was just not enough.

 _He needs_ amad _'s knowledge_ , Duria knew. And of course that was the one thing he could never have. It was what her family was good at, forever wanting the things that were out of their reach.

She could only hope an alliance wasn't one of those things.

* * *

 

There was a strange atmosphere of tension and expectation in the council chambers, Thoren found when he walked in. All those present had either refrained from indulging in wine the previous night or had severely limited their intake, for they all seemed to be awake and alert. Thank the Maker for Aunt Thora's remedy. He could ill afford not to have his head in the game, but last night's interrogation had worked out better than he could have hoped, so his painful head had been a price worth paying.

And it was a miracle all these people were even assembled in the same room. Thoren was a little surprised that Lord Ingor had made it this quickly. He still had not quite recovered his former state of arrogance, but he nodded respectfully in Thoren's direction despite the tongue-lashing that must still be very fresh in his memory. But then again, it could all be a farce. There had been something distinctly fake about his manners.

He spoke the words of welcome that were expected of him, but did not linger long on that part of the meeting. Everyone here knew who everybody else was, so there was no need for introductions. If there was one obscure advisor whose name was not yet known, he could introduce himself before he spoke the words he meant to say. It would certainly save them all some time.

'You are all aware of the reason why we have gathered,' he said.

'We are indeed.' Thranduil wasted no time in interrupting. 'Though you have tried to conceal it from this council, you have called the wrath of the Enemy on yourself.'

That was a very thorough and deliberate misinterpretation of the events, but he had known in advance that the elven king would be difficult, even more so after Elvaethor's actions of the previous day.

Still, it set his teeth on edge. And not just his teeth either. 'Then you've been wrongly informed.' Loni was one of his older advisors, a jeweller by trade, and a very quiet dwarf on the whole. His only son had died in the Battle of the Five Armies and he had never been the same after. But he was wise and he had good counsel to offer. For him to open his mouth so early on was odd and testimony to just how vexed he was at the elves' accusations.

Thranduil smiled pleasantly, but there was ice in his eyes. 'Pray tell.'

 _With pleasure, Lord Elf_ , Thoren thought. And so he did. He described the envoy that had come to the gates, the message he delivered and the threat in his words. He told of his refusal to sell out a dear friend to the Enemy and his reasons for doing so. 'Bilbo Baggins has always been a dear friend to Durin's Folk, a hero of a legendary quest. Whatever it is that the Enemy thinks he has, my people will not be used to bring about his downfall.' Even now, when the consequences of his actions were looming ever larger, he knew that he had not erred in acting as he had. He good not in good conscience have acted any other way. Even to stall would have been a betrayal of the friendship with the hobbit. Maybe others would not look on it that way, but Thoren certainly would.

'A most admirable course of action,' Brand declared. The old King of Dale was nodding in approval. Thoren was grateful for it, for it seemed his words were not that well received by the delegates from Mirkwood and Esgaroth. 'That ought to be an example to us all.' Thoren remembered that Brand had always been a wee bit reckless. It was not a good quality in a king, but Durin's beard, was he glad of it now.

Then again, maybe he had spent some time thinking about it, because Thranduil looked a little uncomfortable. After all, he had more than implied that Thoren's actions could not be condoned, because it had brought war to these lands. And Thoren had not forgotten Duria's news about the scouts roaming so nearby.

'Thank you, King Brand,' he said. 'Your support in these troubled times is a blessing.' It was. There was no falsehood in those words.

'We have stood with the dwarves of Erebor for many years and would be glad to do so for many more to come.' The King of Dale was clearly trying to make a point. 'We would be honoured to answer this threat side by side.'

Jack had pointed out some time ago that Brand was just as scared as Thranduil, so he ran towards Erebor for help, knowing of their strength and the almost impregnable stronghold that the Mountain was. His youngest brother may have been right, but that did not mean that Brand was a coward. He was glad Jack hadn't implied as much. Brand was not afraid of battle, but he feared for his people. Dale was vulnerable. The Mountain at their back was the best reassurance that they had.

'We would be honoured indeed,' Thoren said. It was good to know that at least one of the three guests would stand with him. 'There is great wisdom in facing the Enemy together.'

'As opposed to letting the Enemy pick us off one by one.'

To Thoren's surprise the speaker was one of the men of the Long Lake, a dark-haired man with a beard. He was relatively young; Thoren hadn't seen his face here before. Lord Ingor had employed a lot of new faces and dismissed the old ones. Maker only knows why he had done that. There would be a reason, an ulterior motive. Ingor was the kind of man who indulged in plotting and mind games. He only wished that either Cathy or Elvaethor was here to explain it to him. But Elvaethor was off on his mission and unleashing his sister on this assembly was a sure way to spell disaster.

'That is what has been implied more than once, has it not?' he went on. 'That we will all be overrun unless we combine our strength?'

'Indeed,' his neighbour said. 'It will be well known to you that Esgaroth has a few strong natural defences, but her people have little training in the art of war. Our strength lies in trade and fishing. We are a simple people, but we are also needed by many.' There was pride in his voice.

Thoren had visited the place a couple of times and he had always found it a very interesting town, if incredibly smelly; he had been able to smell fish even a month after his departure. The oldest parts were built over the Long Lake. All buildings in that part were made exclusively of wood, a fire hazard if ever he saw one. The newer parts were built on shore and mostly built of stone. It was slightly safer, but Esgaroth lacked city walls. The inhabitants of the town had always felt that walls were off-putting for their trading partners and either way, if the attack came from over the water, a wall wouldn't be any use at all.

'What my lord is trying to say is that we have many trading partners, not all of them in this region.' The first man took over again. 'We have ties with the lands to the south and east and our services are greatly valued by the people of these lands. Yet now you tell us that these same people would happily see us destroyed for no other reason than that one nearby kingdom has defied one of their allies?'

This was why Thoren hated diplomacy. No, it was why he hated mannish and elvish diplomacy. They could twist the truth so much to make it seem like white was black and black was white. There was just a tiny bit of truth in it, but nothing else made sense, not to someone who knew what was going on.

'Are you as much of a fool as you sound, my lord?' Apparently Brand's son and heir Bard didn't have much more patience for such foolery than Thoren did and he was also cursed with decidedly less patience and control over his own tongue. 'You would be wise not to underestimate the evil of Sauron and the sway he holds over the lands to the east. Learn your history and take note of the destruction he wrought upon Middle Earth when he was last powerful.' Bard was a man who knew his history. The one he was talking to clearly was not so blessed.

'The Easterlings do not depend on you alone for their trade.' Apparently Thorin Stonehelm was incapable of keeping quiet now that one of the Dale delegates had declared open season on the fools of the Lake. 'They have much trade amongst themselves and only come to you when they believe they can get it cheaper from you than elsewhere. They are not dependent on you and therefore will not hesitate to turn on you when they believe it is in their best interest to do so.'

Thoren was eternally grateful to his kinsman for speaking up. There was much more malice from the people of Esgaroth than he had anticipated and he could not quite fathom where it came from. They had always been cordial with one another before. Perhaps they were vexed that Thoren had done as he had with the envoy and had thus endangered their precious trade, but it could not be all. There was some undercurrent of ill will that he sensed, but did not comprehend. These games all went straight over his head and not for the first time this day he wished someone would explain to him what was going on that was not translated into words that all could hear.

Or maybe he did not need an interpreter, for just for one moment he had caught sight of Lainor. The elf had looked almost pleased for a second. One corner of his mouth had turned slightly upward, for just the time it would take to blink. But it was enough.

The elves had put the men up to this. Lainor in his inebriated state had told Thoren and his brothers by marriage that Thranduil would drag his heels, but he would not back out. How aforementioned heels were to be dragged had not been mentioned, but Thoren had a fair idea. It was sly and cunning and shady. But it was also well-known that the men of Esgaroth would go to great lengths for their trading partners. And this way, if the talks came to nothing, the elves could retreat into their woods and hide as they did so well. And no one would even dare to point the finger at them. Thranduil's hatred for dwarves must run deep indeed if he was willing to gamble this much with the fate of his realm and his people.

Or maybe he was still foolish enough to think that Sauron would let him be if he didn't ally himself with Sauron's enemies. Such a strategy had worked before when Smaug terrorised the region after all. But Sauron was not Smaug and the elf ought to know that. Hadn't he been alive already when Sauron was defeated?

The man snorted. 'You speak as if you know something of it, Master Dwarf. And as I hear tell it, you don't venture much outside.'

That had been the wrong thing to say. 'I hail from the Iron Hills, which are situated many miles to the east,' Stonehelm replied. It was a good thing he was holding onto the table; else he would surely have drawn steel already. 'For many centuries we traded with the men of the east, but history has not stopped them from turning on us lately.' He held the man's gaze with his own. 'Sauron will suffer no Free Folk in the world he intends to rule. If you consider yourself as such, you will not remain idle until it is too late.' Like many dwarves, Thoren's kinsman had no taste or skill for diplomacy. They all preferred straight and honest talk to these endless games. 'And if you insist on being foolish, do so at your own risk, but do not look to the dwarves for protection when all else fails.'

'Peace, Thorin,' Thoren said. There was a difference between being firm and being rude. Stonehelm had skirted the line just now, maybe even crossing over into dangerous territory. They could ill afford mistakes like that today. 'My kinsman spoke in haste, but he is not wrong,' he added to the men. 'We cannot carry on as we do now, bickering amongst ourselves, divided, while the Enemy is closing in on us. Even now, my people are out hunting down the Easterling scouts. They were found very near Erebor only yesterday. War is coming, whether you wish for it or not.'

'You speak of danger, but yet no declaration of war has been issued,' Lainor spoke smoothly. 'No envoy has come to our halls.'

'You have nothing Sauron wants that he needs your assistance to get,' Halin said brusquely. Like Thoren, he was clearly losing patience. 'And what you have, he can take. We know that Dol Guldur is occupied again and that evil things are gathering at your borders.' Stupid and reckless though Thráin may have been in actually going near that cursed place, there was no denying he had brought back some valuable information. 'We also know that you have very few defences in case of an attack. My people are prepared to rectify this, should you agree to this alliance.'

They had discussed this last night, before they got drunk. And then they had talked about it some more when they woke this morning. As it turned out, Halin was quite a decent fellow, really, once he stopped being so Lady Nai-ish. That it had taken Cathy sitting them down before the feast last night to have a proper talk was just a minor detail. Surely he would have worked it out on his own… eventually, some decades on.

This took the elves by surprise, though few did more than lift one eyebrow to show it. 'Dwarves offering favours?' Thranduil drawled. 'You must be desperate.'

'Impatient,' Thoren corrected. Aye, desperate, too, but that he could not say. Why all those present were not just as worried was a mystery to him. Did they truly underestimate the threat Sauron posed or were they truly as foolish as to believe that Sauron's wrath would be directed against Erebor and Dale alone? Did they think they would be left in peace? They could not, could they? 'Much time has been wasted and now there is almost nothing left. And when the Enemy's armies march on this region, I would see it prepared and defended. Sauron's evil cannot be allowed to gain a foothold here. Do you believe otherwise?'

He did not think so. Thranduil was many things, but evil he was not. The elves had never supported the darkness in any way. They would not do so now. It did not mean that they would lend aid to the people who needed it, not by any stretch of the imagination, not if they had an actual choice. He already knew that Thranduil would agree in the end. Elvaethor had made sure of that. And it seemed as if the protest of the men of Esgaroth had died a silent death when Stonehelm told them what's what. The elves would not have told them that, of this Thoren was sure. So now they only had to dance this complex dance of words and gestures, but the battle was already fought and won. He knew this, but it was exhausting. Thoren longed for the simplicity of crafting a good weapon or honing his skills on the training grounds. That was what he was made for, not this.

'My people have never given support to the cause of Sauron.' Thranduil was vexed. 'And at a high cost have they fought to ensure his downfall in a time long since gone. Do not speak to me of these matters, Thoren, son of Thorin. You have not seen what I have seen.'

'And I would ensure such evil will never touch this land,' Thoren said. Would it kill that elf to cooperate? 'With or without your aid.'

By rights he should have died on the spot from that glare. 'You have your mother's bearing and your father's single-mindedness, King under the Mountain,' the elven king spoke wryly. 'Very well, then. Let us hear what you have to say.'

It wasn't quite victory.

Yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The political situation in this region is a little different from Tolkien canon, as some of you may have noticed. The reasons for this I'll gladly explain to you if you want, but it would be too long for an author's note.
> 
> Next time: Jack hunts Easterlings and Beth meets a hobbit.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Reviews would be appreciated.


	13. Of Scouts and Books

_I had started reading while these talks were on-going. And I was a quick reader and, more importantly, an undisturbed reader, so I made good time getting through the book. But_ The Lord of the Rings _focuses mainly on the hobbit Frodo and his companions. And all their adventures take place in the west. From the events in the east there was barely any mention at all._

_And so I did not know how precarious the situation truly was. Of course, Thráin kindly explained that to me later. He took me with him to the library and showed me a map, pointing out potential allies and then pointing out all the threats. Mirkwood, Dale, Esgaroth and Erebor were a lonely and isolated group squeezed between the Misty Mountains, that were crawling with orcs and other unsavoury sorts, and the lands of the Easterlings, who had allied themselves with Mordor. And to the south there was the fortress of Dol Guldur, where an evil of some kind had taken up residence. Thráin could not tell me what sort of evil it was, but from the little that he told me I could conclude that it did not look good._

_In the light of these insights it is understandable why Thráin's brother was so keen on that alliance with the few kingdoms in the region he knew to be on the right side. Unfortunately being on the right side does not automatically constitute friendship. There were conflicts there that dated back to thousands of years ago. The only thing that could even bring the quarrelling groups together was a far greater threat. It had been like that almost eighty years ago, when men, elves and dwarves had fought together in the Battle of the Five Armies. Of course, sadly, that alliance hadn't outlived the threat by more than a few days and after that it was business as usual. But now, in the light of a new and greater danger, Thráin hoped that his brother could bring about such an alliance once more._

_He spoke of these tidings with some concern, as in so far he allowed himself to show such a thing to a perfect stranger. But in Rivendell it was hard to imagine any disturbance at all. The valley was peaceful and I felt almost certain that nothing could touch it. It was hard to worry within its borders and even I, who had more cause than most to fret, could feel the peacefulness calming me. Such is the nature of that place._

_But there was no peace on the other side of the Misty Mountains, where the dwarves of Erebor and some of their friends were dealing with a very real danger…_

 

They had left Erebor at first light and had ridden hard for the east ever since. They had left the Mountain as one large group, but had fanned out quickly. There was no telling where exactly the Easterling scouts were or how close they had come. It did not bear thinking about that they would come any closer to the Mountain itself.

And it was good to have a purpose. During talks like the one his brother was now presiding over, Jack was obliged to make an appearance. A prince of Durin's line could not hide in the forges until all the unwelcome guests had disappeared, no matter how much he wanted to. But now there was something useful he could do, something that justified him leaving the Mountain.

He was riding with Elvaethor, Flói and Nuri, one of the guards that he could actually get along with fairly well, mainly because he hardly spoke. But he was good with an axe and deadly in a fight.

'Men were here,' Elvaethor reported after a few hours. They had stopped when the elf had claimed to have seen something and after a short investigation, he had confirmed his own suspicions. 'Not long ago. They slept here.'

That was bad news. They were not far from the Mountain. Jack cursed under his breath.

He dismounted. Flói did the same. His friend was not smiling for once. 'They had a nerve,' he observed. 'Venturing so near Erebor and daring to rest here.'

'Two kept guard.' Elvaethor was not generally given to frowns, the mildly puzzled ones excepted, but he was doing so now. 'There and there.' He pointed. Jack didn't see what he meant, but Nuri nodded in understanding. 'And there was no fire to give away their location. They were careful.' Elvaethor moved a little and looked at another part of the ground, learning its secrets. He was a good tracker, Jack had never doubted that. But it was impressive to see him in action. He could read the ground like others would read a book.

'They were in hostile territory,' Jack observed. 'They wouldn't have taken the risk.'

'Quite right,' Elvaethor agreed. 'There were eight of them, on horseback. They headed north.'

Now it was Jack's turn to frown. 'North? Would it not make sense to keep heading west, if it is information about Erebor and Dale that they are after?'

Nuri was the one to understand first. 'They are going round Erebor in the north, where we don't expect them, and come at the Mountain from the west. Clever bastards.'

'That is my belief as well.' Elvaethor rose and looked at Jack. 'Eight departed, but only six went north.'

Maker forbid that it would be easy. 'Where are the other two?'

'They rode back eastwards.' That was the answer Jack did not particularly care for.

'Reporting something they had already found?' Flói asked.

'Your guess is as good as mine, Master Flói,' Elvaethor said. 'Though your interpretation is a good one, given the facts that the campsite has given us.' He may have sworn his service to Jack's brother, but the longwinded manner of talking of the elves had not vanished overnight. He could have just said something along the lines of 'that's a possibility' or 'that seems likely,' but because he was Elvaethor, he didn't say it like that.

'Anything else?' Jack asked. He wanted to move on, catch up to these scouts before they could actually get anywhere near Erebor.

Elvaethor nodded, solemn all of a sudden. 'There is. Jack, they did not come here from the east. They came from the southwest.'

That was ill news indeed.

'Hang on,' said Flói. 'Are you sure, Master Elf? Aren't you just getting their tracks mixed up with ours? We're on horseback, too, after all.'

Elvaethor shook his head. 'I am afraid not, my friend. We came directly from the west. They did not. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say they came from the direction of Dale or even the Long Lake. Without following those tracks, I cannot be entirely certain, of course.'

Flói nodded, taking his word for it. Like most dwarves, he could find his way underground blindfolded if need be, but above ground he was a mite directionally challenged. Jack was not so burdened, so Flói always insisted that was why he kept Jack around; so that he would not get lost.

This development chilled Jack to the bone. 'So, were they scouts?' he asked. 'Or spies?' He'd thought it odd for a group of scouts to number more than five or six. Even that was a large group already. The more there were, the more they stood out and that would defeat the purpose.

'Could be both.' Nuri had finally decided to open his mouth. 'Two groups met. The spies went home, the scouts went north.' He never wasted any breath on words unless he had to, but the upside of this was that, when he said something, it was always worth your while listening to it.

Elvaethor nodded. 'That is indeed my belief, my friend.'

Jack shook his head. 'But they all came from the southeast. So the scouts must have been there already.'

This time it was Flói who did the quickest thinking. 'Could be,' he said. 'Could be that they were only trying to get close, found out we were patrolling the area, so they decided to go round instead. And somewhere along the road they ran into the spies that went back home.'

The thing about Flói was that it was very easy to think of him as a simple soul with limited intelligence. They'd only be half right. Flói was easily content. He didn't need much to feel happy. But he was quite a clever dwarf. Of course he was; his father was the head librarian and his mother one of the most skilled healers in all of Erebor. There was not a chance the son of Ori and Thora had been born stupid. He merely didn't have the patience for books and scholarly wisdom. That did not make him a fool.

Jack nodded reluctantly. That reading of events did make sense. Unfortunately it did not provide them with a solution of any kind. 'The spies need to be stopped,' he pointed out. 'And the same goes for the scouts. But we number only four.' Only Nuri and Elvaethor were any good at tracking. The most sensible thing would be to split up evenly: two going after the scouts and two after the spies. That way everyone had someone to watch their backs. It went against Jack's very nature to send someone alone, without help. It was not the way of dwarves to let a friend go into danger alone. Then again, it made sense to do so. Even if there were three against the scouts, they would be outnumbered. And Jack was unsure of where the other groups were.

Elvaethor recognised the dilemma. 'I will carry on eastwards on my own,' he said.

'You'll have no one to watch your back, Master Elvaethor,' Flói pointed out. 'And with all due respect, you stand out awfully much with your hair and your height. They'll see you coming a mile away and they'll lay in an ambush waiting for you.'

Elvaethor laughed. 'You underestimate me, my friend. I know my way around a blade.' The elf clearly was not worried.

'Oh, aye, no doubt about it,' replied Flói sensibly, who had sparred against Elvaethor a couple of times and who always found himself the loser of such a contest. 'But even the best of swordsmen can be brought down by arrows shot from afar.'

The laughter disappeared from Elvaethor's face. 'If that is to be my fate, then having a friend at my side will not prevent it. And I would not lead any of you into danger with me.' His gaze settled on Jack. 'You will need the numbers for the scouts when you encounter them. The Easterling armies are well-trained. They will be more than a match for three highly skilled dwarves. They might overwhelm you if there were only two. You know this.'

Jack did. It didn't mean he liked this. He knew he should have ridden out with a larger group, then they would not have this dilemma to begin with. Of course, hindsight was easy. And he felt uneasy letting Elvaethor face this on his own, even though that was clearly his wish.

His relationship with his mother's elvish friend had always been slightly ambivalent. On one hand, Elvaethor was the uncle who wasn't really related. He'd taught Jack much about fighting, had even joined in with a prank or two when he was younger. At the same time Jack never felt at ease with this odd friendship, because it was just one more thing that set him apart from the dwarves of Erebor when he so desperately wanted to fit in. He was aware that Elvaethor knew this, and that it hurt him. And it did nothing to ease Jack's guilt over that now that the elf so readily volunteered for what may or may not be a suicide mission.

'If anyone stands a chance of pulling that off, it'd be the elf,' Nuri remarked.

Elvaethor seized the opportunity to underline his own argument. 'They have a head start of several hours. I think they left before the others. And I ride faster than you can. I will not fail.' He smiled. 'Besides, I promised Kate I would look after you. I cannot do that from beyond the grave. You may rest assured that I will indeed return.'

 _I do not need looking after as if I were a child_ , Jack thought. It annoyed him, the way everyone seemed to think it. Even Flói did it, though he did it in such a manner that Jack could never be put out with him for long, if he managed to do so at all. Still, he was grown now – and really rather too grown in fact – and he could do well enough by himself. What did it matter to them that he did not find it in himself to be cheerful all the time? There was a lot to vex him in life. Should he bear it with an ever-present pretence smile like elves did? Though he did not look it, he was a dwarf and he behaved accordingly. His people did not hide their emotions. So why should he hide his?

But this was neither the time nor the place to get into an argument. 'See that you do,' he said. 'If you have not returned to the Mountain in two days' time, we will come and look for you.'

'Then I shall make all due haste,' the elf promised. He kept using these flowery phrases, but unlike most of his kin, Elvaethor was always sincere. He mounted his horse and nodded at them. 'Likewise, if I should return and find you absent, you may rest assured I will follow after you.'

 _In accordance with this promise you made to my mother._ He wondered exactly what had happened that Elvaethor was so determined and devoted. He was certain his mother wouldn't have asked for this level of devotion. She might have asked the elf to keep an eye on her children, but that was about it. Of course, this was Elvaethor and he did not believe in half-measures.

But the time to ponder these matters was not now and so he told his companions that they too should move on. The Easterlings had a head start of several hours and they would not have kept a slow pace, not if they wanted to scout out the Mountain's defences. There was no entrance in the back and the only other way into Erebor was through the side door. But that door had not opened for many years and only a few people knew of its exact location. Without the key, none could enter. And Thoren had the only key in existence. If the Easterlings came, they would pounce on the front gates. And if they indeed intended to go round Erebor in the north, they had a long ride still ahead of them.

'Of course we can always hope they ran into Dwalin's party,' Flói said optimistically. 'If so, we can go after our friendly elf and give him whatever aid he requires.'

It did make Jack feel marginally better, but he also knew that there was a chance Dwalin's group hadn't come across these scouts. Nuri was doing the tracking, leaving the cousins to ride behind him. Flói started whistling, then singing, but Jack did not join in and eventually Flói gave up.

They rode the rest of the day, but they saw hide nor hair of the group they were chasing.

'We're losing the light,' Flói pointed out when dusk fell. 'We ought to make camp.'

Jack didn't like it, but Nuri agreed that he soon wouldn't be able to see enough anymore and that they might as well call it a day. Jack didn't like having to stop; it felt too much like giving up. They had made good time. Familiarity with the land had made them able to move faster than their foes, but they were still several hours behind. But Jack knew that it would be foolish to carry on in the dark.

And so they made camp, ate and rested some, but were back on the road at first light. Not one of them had slept well and tempers were short. Flói had made exactly one attempt at lightening the mood with song, but Jack's withering glare – the one his cousin always claimed he had inherited from his father – made him shut up. Even Nuri had made vague mutterings about Flói keeping his trap shut if he wanted Nuri to concentrate. Conversation had rather dried up after that.

Jack liked it that way. He never doubted that they would catch up to these men eventually and he did not even doubt that they would deal with them without casualties. It was Elvaethor he felt uneasy about. He would not say that he was worried, would not even admit to that in the privacy of his own mind, but he did not like the elf venturing out alone. True, there were only two spies, but Elvaethor's mission took him into enemy territory and there would be more Easterlings there than just the two.

 _I should not have let him go._ He felt the conviction grow stronger, whilst also knowing there had been no other option. The spies could not return home with Mahal only knew what information. They had to be stopped. But though Elvaethor was a very skilled warrior who could treat his own wounds should he be injured, he was not infallible. And he was very much on his own. Those two things did not help him in achieving a measure of calm.

So maybe it was for the better that around noon Nuri announced that they were catching up, maybe even only an hour behind. Of course, he admitted, he wasn't as skilled as the elf, but he was certain enough. Normally it rankled Jack to hear a dwarf admit that he wasn't as good at something as an elf. The reflex was still to make a sneering remark about how dwarves were better than elves, but this was Elvaethor, the kind friend he had known since childhood and so he held his tongue. With any luck he would be able to translate his pent up frustrations into violence before the day was out. It wouldn't solve anything – well, apart from the scout-shaped problem, that is – but it would make him feel a tad less restless for a while. He could rest secure in knowing that he had done his bit for the safety of Erebor and perhaps folk would think kinder of him for it.

They sped up after that. The sooner they could put this matter to bed, the better Jack would like it. And he would feel better if they could handle it all before they would lose the light. Truth be told, he would prefer to make camp somewhere that wasn't surrounded by dead bodies.

It would seem that he would get his wish. They had barely mounted their ponies – a horse in Jack's case, since ponies were too small for him – again after a short stop in which Nuri had confirmed his own theory that the Easterlings had indeed stopped here for a short while to eat, when they could see the shapes of men on horses in the distance.

'We ride hard,' Jack commanded. 'Make use of whatever surprise is given us before they realise we are there.' There was no honour in cutting men down from behind. Dwarves fought with honour and Jack knew he could be tetchy when one of his people did not live by that code. But this was not an ordinary situation and they were outnumbered.

Flói frowned, even though he did as he was told. 'Shouldn't we give them a chance? You know, like in the stories your ma used to tell?'

When Jack was little, he had loved his mother's stories. There was the book she read from, containing the Narnia tales. When they were young, Jack and Flói had made a thorough search of the available wardrobes in an attempt to find it. Of course Jack's father, when he was in a good mood, was quite a storyteller, but his stories were always based on the truth, a little embellishment aside. But Jack's mother had made up all kinds of stories about all kinds of worlds and peoples that didn't exist. And one of those stories had been about a man called the Doctor, a healer of some kind who didn't do much actual healing, but who travelled through time and space in a box that was bigger on the inside and who helped people out. He also destroyed the bad folk, but not after giving them a chance. His mother had always told him that was a good way to live. But in reality people seldom actually did something with those chances Jack gave them and as a result he had given up on the whole thing.

'It will only take away the element of surprise,' Jack replied curtly. He did not feel easy about this, but to act otherwise would be to gamble with the lives of his companions. He could not in good conscience do that. And these men were enemy spies; they had forfeited their right to a second chance.

The frown on Jack's forehead told him that he did not like it, even worse, that he was worried about Jack for making the decision. Jack was well-acquainted with this particular frown; his friend often wore it when Jack's thoughts took him in a direction he did not care for. 'You're in charge,' he said, resigned. There would be words about it later, but for now this was a mission and Jack outranked him. For Flói matters could be as simple as that.

And maybe even Jack felt better when the Easterlings noticed their approach and turned about to face the threat. They called out something in their own tongue, a language that Jack could neither speak nor understand. And not many Easterlings spoke the common tongue. Those who made their living from trade did, but these men lived by the sword. They had no need for words.

'You are on lands that are not yours, without permission,' Jack called out. 'In the name of the King under the Mountain, I order you to explain yourselves.' Well, he might as well say it. Chances were they didn't understand a word of it and then he could at least say that he had tried to live by his mother's advice. The element of surprise was already gone anyway.

To his surprise, one of them answered. 'Our business is no concern of yours.' He spoke with a heavy accent, the words mangled so badly it made being deaf seem like a good thing. 'Or of your dwarvish friends.'

It decidedly did not help matters that he was mistaken for a man. Again. The repetition of the error, no matter how understandable, did not make the insult of it any easier to bear. If anything, it only made it harder.

'You are on the lands belonging to the King under the Mountain,' Flói cut in before Jack could rectify the situation. 'And we are on the King's business. Explain yourselves or suffer the consequences.'

The man cried something in his own tongue, a battle cry no doubt, given by the result it had. Well, at least the Easterlings charged first. There was that. At least the dwarves had not started the conflict.

There was no more time for further thought, for the enemy was upon them. Jack had been well-trained from the moment he had been old enough to hold a sword, though he preferred the axe over the blades his brothers rather fought with. He knew his way around weapons, but unfortunately, so did the Easterlings. Elvaethor had been right on that count.

It was hard work, but also mostly instinctual by now. He dodged, he swung his axe, jumped off the horse in order not to be such an easy target, he dodged some more and then cleaved a skull in half. Then it was off to Flói, who had also lost his mount and had gotten in trouble with two determined menaces from the East. He took care of one, his friend of the other and then Flói shielded him from a blow a fourth scout was trying to land on Jack's back. Flói cut his legs and Jack removed the head, each operating on his own height. They had worked well like that for decades.

Just like that, it was all over. They were finished just in time to see how Nuri dispatched of the last of the scouts, the only other one lying dead at his feet. The fight could not have lasted much longer than a few minutes altogether. It was hard to say really. Time never seemed to hold any meaning in battle.

'Well, our Master Elf was not wrong about their prowess in battle,' Flói observed. He was carrying out an intensive study of the long cut that ran the length of his right forearm. 'That'll need stitching.'

'I'll do it,' Jack offered. He was not the expert his aunt was, but he could do well enough. Well, he could stitch up battle wounds well enough. Any other sort of healing he'd gladly leave to Flói's _amad_.

'I'll bandage your head then,' Flói agreed. 'That one'll scar nicely, I say. Trying to look more like your ma, are you?'

Now that Flói alerted him to it, Jack experimentally brushed his hand over his forehead and was a little surprised to see that it came away stained red. 'Huh.'

'It's just your forehead, though, so not your entire face,' Flói went on. 'So not exactly like your ma's scar.'

'I do not wish to look like her,' Jack grumbled. Looking more like his mother was just about the last thing he needed.

Flói scowled at him. 'You're not doing her justice, you do know that, right?' Before Jack could argue the point, as he very much wanted to do, his friend added: 'Anyway, it'll show folk you've been in battle. They can't say anything against that. Now, about that stitching, mind getting started? I'm bleeding all over my good trousers here. You know my ma gets upset over ruined clothing.'

Jack smirked. 'I'm saving you from your mother now, am I?'

'It is a most worthy cause.' Flói grinned.

Jack did as he was asked, but could not help wondering in the meantime if the others had been just as successful as they had been.

* * *

 

Waking up the second morning in Rivendell did not suddenly make it feel any more real. In fact, it almost felt worse. Last night she should have been back in her own bed. This morning she should have woken up early, she should have gotten Harry ready for school and then she should have gone back to work with plenty of new material on the Kate Andrews case.

The last thing Beth most certainly had. Or rather, she had some new insights. When she had driven down to Bristol, she had not believed a single word of Kate's letters. Now she did. And it did not help that she knew them all by heart, that she knew exactly how hard it had been on Kate to wake up on the day she should have been home, knowing that all the way back in another world this would be the day people would start to get seriously worried.

'Morning, Miss Andrews!' Alfur was cheerful in the face of anything and it was no different when she joined the dwarves at the breakfast table. 'There's toast and Halnor found some sausages, though Maker knows where he found them in this place.'

'I wouldn't touch them if I were you,' Bofur advised her in a conspiratorially manner. 'He's brought them all the way from the east with him. They're months old.'

'He's just saying that so you'll give him your portion,' said Halnor. He threw an apple at Bofur's head, which bounced off his ever-present hat and right into Glóin's waiting hands, who didn't think twice about taking a generous bite out of it. Meals with dwarves generally involved food thrown over the table and into people's faces. So far, she had been spared the treatment. 'There's not a thing wrong with them and they're as fresh as can be.'

Beth threw a questioning glance Thráin's way.

Her cousin nodded. 'The elves keep some on hand. Reportedly our burglar made such a fuss about it that they make them for him special.'

Harry perked up at the mention of a burglar. 'You have a burglar?'

Bofur laughed. 'Aye, we used to.'

Harry frowned in confusion. 'What did you need a burglar for? Isn't that bad?'

'Oh, he did only good stealing,' Glóin said. He did not seem to like Beth a lot, but he made allowances for her son. 'Unlike Thráin's uncle, who does the bad stealing. No, our burglar stole us back from the elves when they had imprisoned us. And he went alone into the lair of a dragon to scout ahead. He did a good few brave things, our Master Baggins did.'

Harry thought on this for a moment. 'If he stole you from the elves, are the elves not mad?'

'The elves were,' Alfur replied cheerfully. 'They still are, but that's elves for you. But those elves are not these elves, lad. These aren't half bad. They're just very…'

'Arrogant,' supplied Gimli.

Alfur shrugged. 'I was going to say a bit above it all, but arrogant would do it too.' He took an enthusiastic bite out of his sausage. 'But they're decent enough hosts.'

Thráin snorted. 'For hobbits maybe. They would be glad to see the back of us, no doubt.'

'Now, now, Master Thráin, you would do well not to speak ill of your host while you are in his house.' This was said by a new voice and Beth turned around to see who had spoken. A small figure stood in the doorway, looking reproachfully at Thráin. A hobbit, Beth saw, quite possibly the very one that had given Tolkien's book its name. He was quite overdressed for the occasion, she thought, especially since the dwarves had not taken particular care with their appearance. He was old, grey-haired and bare-footed. She knew that from the story, but it was a bit odd seeing someone actually going around without shoes everywhere they went.

'Good morning, Master Baggins!' said Thráin, confirming her theory. 'If Lord Elrond takes offence, I am sure he will tell me to get my things and get myself gone. So far he hasn't done so.'

The hobbit shook his head. 'Not for your lack of trying, as I hear tell.'

'Ah, I'd give it up for a lost cause, Master Hobbit,' Alfur laughed. 'His ma's tried to instil some manners in him, but if she failed to do it in decades, I fear a morning of your efforts will be in vain as well.'

The hobbit muttered something under his breath. It only added to the idea of an old and grumpy gentleman. Beth thought he muttered something about dwarves and always finding trouble where none existed, but she could not be sure. This muttering business concluded, he turned his gaze to Beth.

'Yes, yes,' he said. 'I see the resemblance.' He tottered over to her and extended his hand. 'Bilbo Baggins, at your service.'

She rose to her feet, seeing as that was the polite thing to do. Only now she positively towered over Mr Baggins. Still, she took the hand. 'Beth Andrews. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I've read a lot about you.' That was true enough, she supposed. Still, for all that reading she still didn't have a clue as to what sort of person he was nowadays. After all, everything she had found out about him was true about him eighty years ago. But people changed, didn't they?

The hobbit laughed. 'Pleasure indeed, Miss Andrews. And who is this young rascal?' His gaze turned to Harry.

Harry got up and bowed in the way he had seen the dwarves do. 'Harry Andrews, at your service, sir.' Well, it looked like those lessons in manners had paid off after all.

'My son,' Beth added.

For a moment she saw the same confusion in Mr Baggins's eyes as she had seen in her cousin's, but then Thráin shook his head in the universal manner of saying don't ask and the hobbit didn't. 'Does Gandalf know?' he asked instead. 'I can't imagine he does. He would never bring a child, would he?'

Thráin shrugged. 'Who can fathom what happens in the mind of a wizard?' he asked, clearly intending this as a rhetorical question. 'And you know I do not share your view of his actions.'

The hobbit appeared flustered. 'Yes, yes, Master Thráin, I know. Too much like your father, you are.'

Halnor laughed. 'Pig-headedness runs in his very blood,' he commented. 'It's inevitable.'

'Aye, but does he get it from his ma or his da?' Alfur asked. 'That's the real question here.'

Bilbo frowned, but nodded. 'An unfortunate truth indeed.' The tone suggested he had more than enough experience with pig-headedness from both Kate and Thorin.

Moments like these were what really made Beth feel as though she had wandered into a storybook. The fourth wall had been broken, she was through the looking glass. Two worlds that never should have touched had somehow met and for some people that was the most normal thing in the world.

It was not for Beth. It freaked her out, though she was sure she hid it well. It wasn't Rivendell or even the dwarves and elves that made her want to turn tail and run for the hills. They were strange and she kept feeling that she was never meant to lay eyes on them, but as long as she kept a low profile, she was tolerated. But she should not get involved. She could observe, but not interfere.

Because Kate and her legacy were a reminder of what could be if she was not careful. Kate's name was mentioned in the same sentence as the name of a supposedly fictional character's. She had at least one son – there could be more children; she hadn't got round to asking yet – who was half dwarf, half human. And dwarves as a race did not exist where Beth came from. It gave her the creeps.

But that's not me, she knew. She was not Kate. She would never make the mistakes her great-aunt had. Kate had… well, not forgotten who she had left behind, but she had lost sight of what her priorities ought to be. Beth on the other hand, knew perfectly well what she was about.

'Well, if you cannot be sensible, I shall conclude my business here and leave you be.' The hobbit's ruffled words pierced Beth's thoughts and with something of a shock she realised she must have missed a sizeable chunk of conversation while she zoned out. That was not at all like her. She could only hope she had missed nothing important.

'Miss Andrews, would you accompany an old hobbit to the gardens?' To her surprise Bilbo Baggins turned to her.

For a minute there she considered declining, but something about him made her change her mind. 'Of course,' she said. 'It's just…'

'Harry will be well looked after,' Alfur pre-empted the request Beth had been about to make. 'We'll be paying a visit to Lord Elrond's fountains today. To admire the…' He couldn't find the word.

'Architecture,' Bofur supplied quickly.

By the look on Bilbo's face, he knew better and Beth decided not to ask. 'If you let him drown…'

'You'll make meeting a dragon seem like a healthy alternative,' Thráin finished with a wicked grin. It was not what Beth had intended to say, but she had a feeling it was what Kate would have said if she found herself in a similar situation. Beth had been about to tell him that if anything happened to Harry she would string him up by his family jewels, but the gist was more or less the same. Strange, to think that there were more similarities between Beth and Kate than just their abduction at the hands of a wizard. Beth didn't like it much. She wasn't Kate. She certainly would not make the same mistakes. If anything, the less she had in common with Thráin's mother, the better she would like it.

'Just so,' she said, rising from her seat. 'Shall we, Mr Baggins?'

'We shall,' the hobbit agreed. He took her hand and led her out. It probably looked just as awkward as it felt, what with Bilbo Baggins being smaller. It would have felt like being led out of a room by a child, were it not that the one doing the leading was more than a hundred years old.

'I assume there is a reason you wanted to talk to me, Mr Baggins,' she said, when she found the silence become to stifling. They just made their way back into the garden and though it was the place she had arrived, Beth found she recognised precious little of it. Not that she had been paying much attention. She'd had more important matters on her mind.

'Just a minute now,' said the hobbit. He appeared to be a bit flustered that she had begun the conversation before he was good and ready. 'There is a very pleasant bench just around the corner. I am not as young as I once was. Let us postpone conversation for a little while longer.'

Beth obliged and true enough, there was a bench in a little courtyard just ahead. It was empty and the courtyard itself was deserted. Whatever it was that elves did during the day, it wasn't wandering around their gardens. Beth idly wondered if they had jobs like everybody else, but she couldn't quite picture it. From what she had seen of them so far – which wasn't much, truth be told – they seemed to be, as Alfur had phrased it, above it all. They seemed above such simple things.

'Lovely spot,' Mr Baggins commented as they sat down.

'It is,' Beth agreed. And it was the truth; the place was lovely. The light was soft and she could almost feel peace settle around her like a comfortable blanket. It was the ideal spot for the weary mind. Troubles did not seem to matter much within the confines of this elven city.

But Beth did not feel completely calm either. Her predicament kept nagging from the back of her mind, working its way to the centre stage, effectively undoing the effect Rivendell might have had on her otherwise. She felt restless and trapped. The fact that she had to wait for the wizard, even though she did now have a fairly good idea why he was not here yet, did not help matters. She should have been someplace else and she wasn't. Instead she was waiting for something to happen.

'I presume you wanted to talk to me about something,' she said when no reply was forthcoming.

'Ah, yes.' The hobbit lifted the bag he had taken with him onto his lap. Beth hadn't asked about its contents. It wasn't really her business. But now she wondered. 'Lord Elrond told me that Gandalf had employed another advisor, you see. And that you were related to Kate.'

'You knew her then?' Beth had not meant to ask the question, but it had become something of a habit to attempt to learn as much about Kate as possible. Her inner researcher came out before Beth could contain her.

'I most certainly did.' The hobbit made himself comfortable in the same way Glóin had done when Thráin had asked him to tell the story. 'I counted her a friend, well, eventually, mind. She was not immediately very likeable, but one mustn't speak ill of the dead and she was a very decent lady on the whole.'

Hobbits really were well-mannered, weren't they? 'I've heard that she was quite abrasive and often unpleasant to be around.'

When Bilbo asked how she had heard that, she briefly told him of the work she had done back home, of all the documents she had collected and all the people she had spoken to. It appeared to be news to her conversation partner. Whatever he had been told, that had not been part of the brief. But he was an attentive listener and she found she spoke more than she wanted to originally.

'You know much more of the story than I anticipated,' he confessed. 'That will serve you well in the months to come, I shouldn't doubt.'

Beth frowned. 'I know some of the past from Tolkien's book and the letters Kate wrote. But I don't know much about the future.' Yet. She didn't know much about the future yet. Before the week was out, she would have rectified that situation. While she did not want to be here and she wanted to be an advisor even less, it didn't hurt to be prepared. And everyone she had spoken to so far concurred: Kate had begged and pleaded to be sent home and her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Of course, this wouldn't mean she would not fight to be sent back where she came from. Beth just knew to pick her battles and to not charge in unprepared or all guns blazing. She liked to think she had better control over her temper than Kate.

'To understand the future, one ought to understand the past first,' Bilbo Baggins said wisely. He opened the bag and pulled out a big red book that he deposited in Beth's lap. 'There, that should do it.'

'That should do what?' Beth asked. She had a feeling about this, but she wasn't sure and she was none too eager to make a fool out of herself.

'Preparation.' The hobbit appeared a bit annoyed with her for not realising that. 'It's not a gift,' he added. 'But you can borrow it. You might need a more thorough account than just some letters. And I know that Kate wrote down her own story and that it might be more helpful for the task you are here for, but of course Thráin did not know that it would be needed. So this is the next best thing.'

Her suspicions were right then. 'You wrote down your story?' Then another thought hit her. 'Wait a minute, Kate wrote down her account of it as well?'

'I believe that she did,' Bilbo nodded. 'I have not read it myself, as it should be. She intended it for her children, though I believe she would have made an exception for you.'

Beth made a mental note to address the plural once she saw Thráin. So he did have at least one sibling. And if she was going to dive into this, maybe she should do it thoroughly. She was after all long past denying her own curious streak.

'Thank you for your help,' she said, remembering her manners. He had done a lot when he didn't have to. She barely knew him, for heaven's sake.

'You are most welcome.' She saw the sympathy in his eyes. 'The task ahead will not be without a cost, I know that much. Your predecessor did not always find it an easy burden to bear.'

Beth frowned. 'How so?' Just because she didn't want to advise anyone did not mean that she would not be capable. It was as simple as reading a book and telling people what they should and shouldn't do. It could not honestly be that hard. And she was quite sure she would not get the kind of "bright ideas" that had gotten Kate in such spots of bother over the course of her journey.

'You are young,' the hobbit told her. 'And I daresay you have not seen much of the world.'

This annoyed her. 'I am not a child,' she pointed out. 'I have one.' It was dangerously close to the kind of outburst she had promised herself she wouldn't have anymore, but fortunately Harry wasn't here to see.

'You are not,' said Bilbo thoughtfully. 'But in many ways you are inexperienced. I have seen one quest change a woman before. You will not be the same either when all is done and dusted.' He said this as if he knew that. It wasn't just some vague notion of his.

And Beth didn't like it one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beth has issues. So does Jack. It's a sad thing, really.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Reviews would be most welcome!


	14. A Long-Awaited Arrival

_In the days that followed I did a lot of reading. There was little else to do for me. I did not quite dare to approach the elves and they in turn assumed I was with the dwarves – which, truth be told, I suppose I was – and they avoided me as they did them. Of course, it wasn't quite out of the realm of possibility that the dwarves, having kind of claimed Harry and me as their own, had a hand in keeping the elves away from me. Either way, the result was the same and I did not see much of them._

_Harry had accepted this new reality with an ease I could only marvel at. He'd become good friends with Alfur and Halnor. The two dwarves constantly complained about having too much time on their hands, so Thráin, in an effort to remedy that situation, had assigned them to babysitting duty, a task they took to with entirely too much enthusiasm. But both the dwarves and Harry were happy, so I wasn't complaining._

_Thráin was just about as subtle as a brick to the head, but he at least made sure I wasn't left on my own. Mostly he was there himself, ready to strike up a conversation when I wanted or needed it. And if he wasn't there, then Bofur generally was. In a rather unsubtle way, the dwarves were babysitting me as much as my son. If I had been any less out of my depth, I would have found that insulting. But they were friendly and sympathetic without crossing over into the territory of the pity that I could not have tolerated. Thráin patiently explained his world. I learned that he had travelled much and therefore knew a lot. Bofur was less well-travelled, but he had an impressive repertoire of songs and stories that gave breath and shape to a world I otherwise only knew from the pages of a book. If I was to speak of this in terms of a drawing, then Thráin would draw the lines, the scene, while Bofur coloured it in._

_Glóin and Gimli I did not see much of. I knew Halnor and Alfur had attempted to involve Gimli in their games, but they generally failed and other than at mealtimes, father and son did disappearing acts during the day. It was quite obvious that they did not want to be in Rivendell._

_And so I found myself with plenty of time to read. It took me only days to finish the Lord of the Rings. I vaguely remembered the story from years ago, but was surprised by the complexity of Tolkien's world, rich with detail that I was sure I could never remember. And I hadn't even started on the appendices in the back of the book. Neither could I bring myself to do that yet. There was too much information in my head already and with no clear purpose, it just swirled around uselessly._

_That was my problem in those early days of October. I had renewed my acquaintance with the book, but it didn't mean anything yet. I had met almost none of the people who populated its pages – Elrond and Gimli being the exceptions – and those I had, I knew not very well. So if there was a death of a character in the book, that was unfortunate, but it meant nothing to me. Somewhere in the back of my head I knew that this might very well change in the future, but for the time being I was detached and certainly more interested in my own troubles._

_So, not ready for a reread yet, I turned to Bilbo Baggins's book. I had promised myself I would get to read it as a treat for finishing the dense volume that was my reason for being in this world. After all, now that the first shock had subsided, I found that my interest in Kate Andrews had not quite gone. And reading about her and her adventures only fanned the flames of my interest once again._

_Of course, Bilbo mainly focussed on his own view of the quest, but Kate certainly popped up several times. He didn't know what to make of her at first and their interactions were limited, but something of a reluctant friendship had come into existence later on._

_But Bilbo didn't just write. He was also an artist of some talent. He had drawn the objects that held some meaning to the quest, like swords and maps and even a key, the views on the road and the people he shared aforementioned road with. And this for the first time put faces to the people Kate had written about. With each page I read, the story came more to life and it felt less and less like the fabrications of a deluded psychopath._

_Little did I know, I was only hours away from meeting one of the main characters in person…_

 

The streets were entirely too crowded for Cathy's taste. After the meeting with what her mother had always called the bigwigs of their region, the preparations for war had started in earnest. Food was brought into the Mountain in case of a siege, the smiths were working day and night on armour and weapons and there were warriors bloody _everywhere_ , blocking the streets and generally getting in the way. The news that there were Easterling scouts in the area had been a wake-up call for most of those in attendance at Thoren's Council, which scholars and scribes for some reason were already calling the Council of the East. When Duria had told her this, Cathy had scoffed. She was of the opinion that such a name was only appropriate if there was a corresponding Council of the West.

And now, though the bigwigs themselves had left, there had been a steady influx of warriors ever since. There were men of the Lake who were in desperate need of some training. Even Cathy's untrained eye could see that they couldn't even defend themselves from an angry bull, never mind an army's worth of highly trained Easterlings. There were some men from Dale too, but they mainly focussed their efforts on the defence of their own city. There were elves too, mostly archers. Dwarves were no talented shooters and in this area elves certainly had the advantage and Thoren was lucky he had managed to negotiate their presence. In return he'd had to send a group of dwarvish builders to Thranduil's halls to make them ready for war, because, as Cathy herself had seen with her own eyes, his defence works were shabby at best. The arrogant pointy-ears had always assumed they would not be attacked in their own halls, which of course meant absolutely nothing to Sauron. He'd only laugh at it before razing it to the ground. That the elves had ever thought otherwise was only testimony to their unending arrogance.

Of course, not all elves were like Thranduil and most of the ones currently lodging under the Mountain were more or less decent. They were polite, they pulled their weight and they didn't seem to think dwarves were worth less than the dirt under their elegant boots.

And there were quite a number of elves in this part of the city. Normally Cathy did not come here, but it was a shortcut to the gates and the eastern part of the Mountain and that was where she needed to go.

'Good afternoon, my lady.' One of the elves hailed her from across the street and it was clear from his gestures that he meant for her to halt and talk to him.

'Likewise, Master Elf,' she said. She was slightly annoyed at the delay, but she had been raised with manners. 'How may I help you on this fine day?'

He smiled pleasantly. 'Is it?' he asked. 'I have not felt the sun on my face for days.'

'Aye, the sun is out.' Cathy told herself that moaning about the different values of elves and dwarves would do no one any good, least of all her. She would only be subjected to a long and boring lecture about the benefits of fresh air and sunlight and the effect on the health of body and spirit of being confined to underground quarters. She'd heard it so often in the past days that she could give the speech as well as any of the elves. 'And I am on my way to the gates. If you have time, you could walk with me and see for yourself.'

'If the lady does not object to my presence, I would be glad of the opportunity.' The elf was courteous enough, but, as with all his fellows, Cathy could not help but feel uneasy. Even if they were sincere, elvish manners always felt somewhat fake. They did not feel real. The long-winded sentences certainly did not help.

Still, they seemed to think she was more agreeable than most of her people, probably because she did not look much like other dwarves. That was her mother's legacy of course, but despite her looks, Cathy was a dwarf at heart and she had no patience for the poetic use of language that elves liked to use. Speak plainly or do not speak at all. She'd heard her father say that on one occasion when he was especially vexed by an elvish envoy and she rather liked it.

'If the lady objected, she would not have offered,' she said, making sarcastic use of the third person. 'And my name is Cathy, daughter of Thorin, at your service.'

The elf frowned. 'I know who you are,' he said.

'Then you might do me the courtesy of addressing me by my name,' she said. 'And you may tell me yours.'

'Aerandir, at your service, Lady Cathy,' the elf said.

That was not exactly what she had meant. 'Without the lady bit.' She was a tiny bit irritated by now. She had a goal in mind and being waylaid by a verbose elf had not been part of the plan. 'We are not in throne room or the council chambers that you need to remind me of my title. My memory isn't going; I know what I am.'

To her surprise the elf laughed. 'My uncle did not say too much about the legendary bluntness of dwarves,' he said. 'Though it appears that he was wrong about many other things.'

Her curiosity reared its ugly head when he made mention of an uncle, but her irritation won out and she decided to save the matter for another day. 'What did you wish to talk about, Aerandir?' she asked. 'I haven't got the time of day to sit around to listen to the verbosity of the elves till nightfall.'

'Fair enough,' said the elf, all business now. Well, at least that eternal cheer had gone for a bit. 'A small party of elves has scouted out the area to the southeast to Erebor and has found another group of scouts about fifteen miles away. These scouts were tracked down and dealt with. But it was felt among our number that it would be good to share this news with our dwarvish allies.'

'You ought to have reported this to my brother,' Cathy said bluntly. 'Or my cousin Fíli.' She had no mind for military matters. Politics she understood well enough – not that anyone would let her anywhere near such a gathering – but war was quite a different cup of tea. She knew that scouts nearby were bad news, but if this news had been given to Thoren instead of her, he would have been able to tell what it meant given from the location, the number of scouts and the time they were found. To his youngest sister, it was meaningless.

'He would not be found,' the elf said. 'And it was felt this news was urgent and needed to be relayed as soon as possible.'

'You just did,' Cathy told him. Well, she was in search of Thoren anyway. And if he had any questions, she had the elf's name, so she could send him in the general direction of better answers. The alternative was that Aerandir followed her in search of her brother, but that meant that she would have to stand his presence for a while longer, not a prospect she relished. Then again, it couldn't be helped.

Aerandir was not done. 'The scouts were not men of the East,' he said, in a tone that made it clear that he thought she did not understand the severity of the matter. True enough, she didn't, not entirely. But she wasn't a foolish child either and the words rubbed her the wrong way.

'Pray tell where they did hail from, if you would be so kind, Master Aerandir, or would you rather put up an inscription with the news?' she said when he did not immediately tell her who the scouts had been rather than who they hadn't been.

Really, she did have manners, but maybe not at the moment. And she knew she was snappier than she ought to be. True, the elf got on her nerves, but they had done that before. It was no reason to go all Jackishly rude on him. It was because she had been feeling slightly ill this morning, she decided. Dwarves did not as a rule get ill and the fact that she had been unwell for a couple hours had vexed her. Her more mannish weaknesses did not bother her as much as her twin brother, who had turned moping about it into a form of art, but she didn't like them either. And on top of that she was anxious about news of Elvaethor, which was what she hoped to find when she got down to the gates.

Aerandir fortunately refrained from commenting and answered the question. 'They were orcs of Mordor, which, as you might understand, is a worrying development that our leaders did not foresee.'

'Your leaders didn't, perhaps,' Cathy allowed, though the Maker only knew why. 'But it was an envoy of Mordor who came to these gates and left unsatisfied. It would be folly to think Sauron would stand for that. Of course he's going to get involved himself. Or he's going to involve his personal army more like.'

That said, the presence of orcs was new and if only for that reason extremely alarming. And Thoren would want to know. She'd better find him and find him quickly, him or their cousin Fíli, who had done more than his fair share of actual preparations while Thoren was up to his eyeballs in bigwigs. Yes, Cathy decided, she really liked that word. It sounded pompous and slightly ridiculous. And that was certainly a description that fit most of their recently departed guests.

'Then dwarves must be possessed of extraordinary skills, if they could divine all of this before it happened.' Aerandir sounded mocking now.

'It's a very extraordinary skill,' Cathy agreed, before adding: 'It is called common sense, Master Elf.'

Was it any wonder that her parents were always on the verge of losing their tempers with the elves? Apart from Elvaethor, who was more dwarf than elf in character anyway, she had never actually met any of the Firstborn who didn't give her chills or the urge to punch them in the face. Or maybe that was just the Mirkwood elves. Word had it that their western cousins were actually more or less decent.

Well, at least she had shut him up now and they made good time now that she didn't have to make polite conversation anymore. She took a few shortcuts with lower ceilings. It was the quicker route, but it also meant that Aerandir had to duck in order to avoid banging his head on the ceiling. And if she took some satisfaction out of the fact, well, there was no one around to take her to task for it.

Thoren wasn't at the gates, where he was supposed to be checking the food that came into the Mountain. Cathy silently groaned. Of course he wasn't. It would be one of his restless days. He had them sometimes. He would wake, find that he lacked the patience to just do what he was supposed to be doing and then just move around from one thing to another. Trying to find him on a day like that was trying to catch smoke. No wonder the elf had been unable to locate him; his own siblings found that hard enough as it was. At least they knew his regular haunts. The elf was not so blessed.

'Don't tell me, it's one of his days,' she said to Fíli when she joined him at the gates. Her brother should have been there too, but well, clearly he had other things to do.

Fíli knew what she meant immediately. 'Not exactly. There's been news that the patrols are returning. He's ridden out to meet them.'

Thank the Maker. At last. It had been more than two weeks since the patrols had left. Most of them had returned within two days. There had been no losses, only minor injuries. But when Jack's group came back, it returned without Elvaethor. And Jack's face had fallen when he had learned that the elf had not come back on his own. He had barely rested long enough to report that Elvaethor had decided to hunt down two Easterling spies on his own – and what in Durin's name had Jack been thinking, letting Elvaethor go alone? – before he had been back on the horse to find their friend. He had taken a fair few of the guard with him, which meant he anticipated trouble.

Cathy didn't like it. She liked it even less that ever since there had been no news. Well, there had been no news until this morning when Nuri had come back, telling them that they were near. Of course, he had vanished into thin air after, leaving Cathy with no one to ask her questions of. Was Elvaethor still alive, had they found him, had Jack come back unscathed, what had happened? It was utterly frustrating. It was even more so because she couldn't ask any of these of Fíli while the elf was still breathing down her neck.

'Good,' she said. 'Fíli, this is Aerandir. He's got some news you need to hear.' She might as well get it over with. The sooner Mr Elf had said what he wanted to say, he could go and get lost while she pressed her cousin for details.

Aerandir seemed a bit ruffled, but gave Fíli the same news he had given her. Fíli unsurprisingly asked for more details and the elf, to his credit, answered them all promptly and without the long-windedness that appeared to be second nature to his kind. Maybe it was the kind of warriors among themselves thing that Cathy had observed a few times before. There didn't appear to be any need for unnecessary pleasantries in such situations, but she was a lady and people insisted on being courteous to her. Cathy would much rather have that they didn't, without much success to date.

Unfortunately, when he was finished – and Fíli had responded with just as much surprise as Cathy herself had, which left the elf ever so upset – he did not leave. Subtle attempts to tell him he might be needed elsewhere were ignored and Cathy did not have the patience to delay any longer.

'What news?' she asked. 'Jack? Elvaethor? Flói?'

Fíli smiled at the disorganised manner in which she presented her queries, but he understood her anyway. 'All alive,' he assured her.

Cathy frowned. Alive was not the same thing as unharmed. 'And uninjured?' she demanded.

'Flói is,' Fíli replied, which rather implied that the other two objects of her concern were not. 'Jack sustained some mild injuries, I am told.'

Jack always sustained mild injuries in skirmishes. It was because he was so bloody reckless. If Flói had not been there to watch his back all these years, they would have had to bury him many years ago. Cathy knew this. It was also the reason why she always worried about her twin when he was away. It was also why she thanked the Maker each and every day for the presence of Flói.

But she had not yet heard what she wanted to hear and so she pressed on relentlessly. 'And Elvaethor?'

She could feel the elf behind her perk up in interest at that name. It was not unlikely that he knew her elvish friend as well, and had known him longer than Cathy too. Then again, Elvaethor had never spoken of this Aerandir. Cathy had a good head for names; she would have remembered if he had.

'All I know is that he did not fare so well.' Fíli did not look pleased. 'He is not in mortal danger, I was told, but neither is he well. Nuri would not say more.'

Nuri would _never_ say more. If he spoke twenty words altogether on any given day that was much. She had known him for years and years and though he always smiled at her and was frequently found in the same company as she was, he had seldom said more to her than good day. No one expected lengthy reports from him. So why in Durin's name had Jack thought it was a good idea to send the most taciturn dwarf in all of Erebor ahead as a messenger?

She kept her displeasure about this to herself. She would not speak ill of one of her own where an elf could hear.

'I see,' she said.

Fíli had known her all her life, so he could tell that she was getting increasingly impatient. 'You are welcome to wait here if that is your wish. They could arrive at any moment.' He looked at the elf, noted with visible displeasure that he had still not gone and added: 'And you may do so as well, Master Elf.'

Aerandir either did not see the opposite actual meaning of Fíli's words or simply ignored it. 'It would be my pleasure.'

The feeling was not mutual.

Fortunately they were not made to wait for very long. Before it could even get truly awkward, Cathy could see shapes on the road, which turned into ponies and riders the closer they came and the clearer Cathy could see them.

'I don't see Elvaethor,' she said, squinting in the vain hope that would make her notice something she had missed before.

Aerandir hurried to her aid. 'He is there. I believe he shares a horse with your brother.' Heightened elven senses were good for something then.

The news was both a relief and a new cause for anxiety. If Elvaethor was not strong enough to sit on his own horse, something very bad must have happened to him. Cathy did not like it one bit. She almost proposed to fetch a healer, but she needed to see with her own eyes first and so she stayed where she was.

Her patience was rewarded. Soon enough she could make out the familiar shapes of her kith and kin for herself. Dwalin was there, Lufur too, in conversation with her oldest brother, whose forehead had wrinkled into a deep frown. Yes, she could make out Flói as well. And Jack towered over everyone on his horse. Ponies were simply too small for him. And on Jack's shoulder rested Elvaethor's head. It appeared that her elvish friend was not even making an effort to sit on his own or pretend he did not need to support. Dread settled in her stomach.

'Find me a healer,' she told one of the guards at the gate. 'And quick.'

He nodded and moved back into the Mountain as Cathy finally found her well of patience exhausted. She ran at the approaching group. 'Elvaethor!' she called out and felt a stab of fear when he did not respond. He was still alive, wasn't he? Nuri could not have been so wrong, could he?

'Alive,' Jack said curtly, rolling his eyes at her when she was close enough to see. 'But sleeping.'

'Not anymore, Master Jack,' said the familiar voice of the elf. 'You have been remiss in your duty, my friend. You ought to have woken me so we could save your sister the worry.'

She was walking next to the horse now the last short distance towards the gates. She could see that Elvaethor was positively slumping against her brother. Though it was hard to see immediately what injuries he had sustained, the blood on his clothes was more than enough of a giveaway that something bad had indeed befallen him.

'I have worried for you for well over a fortnight now,' she replied. _You could have saved me the worry if you had stayed where you were supposed to be._ What was it with her nearest and dearest forever running off into danger, always going places she was not allowed to follow? She hated staying back, having to resign herself to waiting for news. And on occasions such as these, when bad things happened to them – because they shouldn't go thinking for one moment that she didn't see the awkward way Jack moved his right arm and the still healing wound across his forehead – she felt both angry and powerless.

'I shall endeavour not to subject you to such fear again,' Elvaethor said, but his voice lacked the decisiveness she was used to and he was having trouble even so much as lifting his head. At least he was aware of it, because he added: 'Do forgive me, my little lady. I am not as well as I would have liked to be.'

She could see that for herself well enough and so, in spite of her questions, she stood back and let the healers gently carry her oldest friend into the Mountain. Of course this did not mean that she would not ask her questions of another and Thoren was closest.

'What happened?' she demanded. He would have found out every detail he could the moment he met with the home comers and Cathy knew this. And he would be more inclined to answer her than any of the others.

Even before he replied, she could tell it was not going to be good news; his face was almost grey. 'It's worse than I expected,' he said, before brushing past her through the gates.

Cathy felt suddenly quite cold.

* * *

 

It was a tedious business waiting for the wizards. There was entirely too much time and not enough work to fill it with, Thráin found. On the other hand there was far too little time and he was wasting it with waiting. In Rivendell all was quiet and peaceful, but Thráin knew that on the other side of the Misty Mountains, matters were not so calm. His brother was fighting for an alliance to ward off whatever attackers would come to the gates of the Lonely Mountain and here Thráin was, spending his days in idleness. It was more than he could bear quietly. Having a go at one of his friends at the training grounds from time to time helped some, but they were his friends and so he could not hurt them or lose control. All his impatience and rage kept building up and he knew that sooner rather than later something had to give. And he'd rather have a good long shout at the wizard than anyone else if at all possible.

'Afternoon,' Beth said when she sat down on the other side of the table. They were in their living quarters, kindly provided by the elves, though Thráin was sure they did not have kindness on their minds when they had given the dwarvish delegation separate quarters. 'Do you mind if I join you?'

The table was empty and all Thráin had to hand was a book, so he made the well-known help yourself gesture and clearly this one extended across worlds, for she nodded in thanks and put down her documents. She had brought them with her from the other world and she had been working on them these past three days. He did not see the point in it; she was not home and she had admitted herself that, knowing what she knew now, she could never publish them.

'Why?' he asked brusquely.

It got her attention. 'Why what?' she asked.

'Why bother with it?' he clarified. 'You said they are of no more use, so why?'

She shrugged. 'To keep busy,' she replied. 'I have read _The Lord of the Rings_ twice cover to cover, I have read Mr Baggins's book. Until Gandalf arrives, there is not much else I can do. And I have had a look at the library, but there is nothing there that I can find that I'm able to read.'

'All books are written in Sindarin,' he understood. 'Elves do not care much for the Common Tongue and visitors are a rarity in this place.'

Beth frowned at the book. 'You understand the language, though,' she observed.

She was prying. Thráin knew this and he did not like it much. Beth Andrews may be his kin, and that entitled her to his aid, but he knew next to nothing about her and dwarves did not part with their secrets easily. But so far she had given him little cause to mistrust her and she did look lost and forlorn. Maybe a small measure of trust was in order.

'I had an elvish tutor,' he replied. 'A friend of my mother's called Elvaethor. You may have come across him in my mother's letters.' That vexed him too, that she had his mother's writings and yet still understood so little.

Beth nodded. 'She didn't appear to like him much, but I suppose such things can change over time.' She looked at him, pondering, for a moment, before she clearly remembered that dwarves valued straight talk and said: 'Look, I know that I am a novice in all this. You don't want me to be here and I don't want me to be here either. It is obvious, really. But I am trying to get to know you, because I think it is safe to say you are the only real friend that I have in this place.'

He nodded. And he supposed that she was right. And he had been distant, emotionally anyway. And he had resented her for keeping him here, but truth be told, he would have waited for news even if she hadn't arrived. But then it had been by his own choice and should he change his mind, there was no one to stop him from leaving. Beth's arrival had made his stay in Rivendell a duty instead of a choice, but he also knew it was not her he ought to resent for it. She hadn't been given a choice in this any more than he had.

'Dwarves do not talk easily to outsiders,' he told her bluntly. 'Our actions and words are often misinterpreted by those belonging to the races of men and elves. And I do not know you very well.'

'I see,' said Beth. 'I didn't mean to offend you.'

She'd misinterpreted him, though the tone of voice wouldn't have helped her. On the other hand it was a prime example of the misunderstandings that so often occurred. 'I did not mean to tell you off,' he said. 'I was merely stating a fact.'

'I see,' she said again. She thought again for a moment. 'I've got two siblings,' she said suddenly. 'Mary's the eldest. She's married to this lovely guy called Terrance and they have two kids: Thomas and Lily. Then there's Peter, who's always running off to distant places. He's been all over the world really, hardly ever home, but he always remembers everyone's birthdays. And then there's me, not married obviously.' She seemed a tiny bit self-conscious about that, as if she was aware that it was not the done thing in this world.

Thráin frowned. 'Why are you telling me this?'

'Because you said you barely knew me.' Beth said this as if it should have been perfectly clear. 'I am changing that.'

For just a moment there he could have been fooled into thinking he had his youngest sister in front of him. Cathy might have done that, though she would have done it with more mischief. And she would have smiled.

Beth was not Cathy, but neither was she entirely a stranger. She was kin. It was the very reason why Thráin had allowed her to stay with him and his kin, when normally he would never have consented to sharing quarters with a mannish lass and her equally mannish son. And her words – _you are the only real friend that I have in this place_ – had hit home. He had not treated her as one ought to treat relatives, with barely concealed wariness and emotional distance. It was not the dwarvish thing to do.

And so he repaid her in kind. 'I have four siblings, three of which are younger in age,' he offered.

Talking was slightly easier after that. He knew she didn't know what to make of him and he certainly did not know what to make of her. They did not understand each other's cultures, but he refrained from responding with biting sneers when she asked about why on earth there had even been a conflict with the elves and men eighty years ago. Wouldn't it have been simpler just to give them the gold and get them gone, she asked. Instead of flying off the handle, he explained his parents' reasoning as best he could. And when her turn came he could see she tried not to respond likewise when he asked about Harry's father. It surprised him even more that she answered the question – which did not make him think kinder of the world she came from – instead of evading it as she had before.

Eventually he asked the question that had been on his mind for some days now. 'What do you believe you are here for?' he asked. 'I am aware of the knowledge contained in your book, but beyond that, I know nothing.'

She understood what he was asking without him having to spell it out for her. 'There is not much about the war in the east,' she replied, almost apologetically. 'And the little that is written down, mostly in the appendices, not even the main story, might not be much use. You know, since Dáin is not the King under the Mountain and from what you said, I think your brother is doing things differently anyway.'

Thráin nodded. He had suspected as much. His father and mother had changed the ending of the previous book. Of course it was bound to have consequences, such as rendering the following book completely useless, at least in regards to his homeland. But Gandalf would not have brought her here at all if he did not believe that there was something in this book of Beth's that could be of use in the troubling times ahead.

'Then what are you here for?'

Beth bit her lip. 'There is going to be a quest,' she said. 'To destroy the One Ring.'

He audibly groaned as at long last the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. 'Bilbo's Ring,' he understood. 'Durin's beard, it could not have been one of the Seven he had found, could it? Or some stupid elven trinket of some sort.'

His cousin appeared to be confused. 'How in the world did you know that?'

Thráin shrugged. 'I knew Mr Baggins was in the possession of a magic Ring of some kind; he used it to great effect during the quest on which he accompanied my parents. And I thought it was unusual for an envoy of Sauron to take such an interest in what he claimed was the least of rings when he came to the gates of Erebor.' He had not mentioned the tale before, but Beth did not ask for clarification, which led Thráin to believe it was written in her book. 'But if it is the One that Bilbo found all these years ago and the Enemy has somehow learned of this, and how he managed to do so at all is a matter that troubles me, that would explain a thing or two.'

'Sauron got his hands on Gollum,' Beth replied. 'He told him.'

'That creature.' Thráin still had vivid memories of the trip he had taken with Strider. Gollum had spent most of the time tied up in a sack, allowing in just enough air for him to breathe but nothing else, but that had not stopped him from moaning and wailing all those long weeks. Thráin had been glad to be rid of him.

'You've met him?' Beth asked.

He snorted. 'I hunted him down and brought him to the halls of the elves, in the company and at the behest of a good friend of mine, a Ranger who goes by the name of Strider.' He would not have divulged this information to her prior to this day, but he felt that if she was meant to do the same work his mother had once been hired for, she had better be in the possession of all the facts. 'Naturally, the elves have since managed to lose the wretched creature.'

'This…' She fell silent. 'This is not quite like it was in the book.' She seemed to feel a little lost.

 _Was this how_ amad _felt when her book became less than reliable?_ Thráin could not help but wonder. His mother had described it like skating on thin ice, having to test each and every patch thoroughly and even then you couldn't be sure it would bear your weight. Gambles did not always pay off and what seemed to be reliable information was often twisted and different, whilst being more or less true to the book at the same time.

'My mother's writings suggest that it was like that for her as well,' he remarked.

Beth managed a smile, but it did not reach her eyes. 'I don't think that really matters,' she said. 'The book is more about the quest and if Gollum did escape, then that's how it is in the book as well. I don't really think it changes anything, not really.' But she had gone pale, so there was something that was bothering her.

'You fear this quest?' he asked, not doubting for a moment that Gandalf would wish her to be on it. If he had expected such a thing of Thráin's own mother, he would expect it of Beth and he would not take no for an answer.

'You would, if you knew what I did.' She had her arms wrapped around her torso, as if bracing herself for a fight and the gesture was so like his mother, Thráin found it hard to look at her for a minute. 'There's going to be so much fighting and danger and orcs and nine creepy ghosts in black robes.' She stopped there, took a deep breath and controlled herself. 'I cannot fight, I haven't gone camping in years and I'll admit I am scared.' She took another deep breath. 'And I am not quite sure what it is Gandalf would want me to do, if he even wants me to change something.'

'He will,' Thráin said. 'And he will believe that it is only something you can achieve. But he will not tell you what it is. You must figure that out for yourself. It is why you are the advisor. If he believed it was in his power to do it himself, he would have. But he clearly does not, hence your presence in this world.'

Beth wrinkled her nose. 'I am not sure I like that word. That was Kate's job, being an advisor. And I am not her.'

It mattered little to him. 'An interpreter then, if you like,' he said. His mind was still stuck on the mention of the nine creepy ghosts she had mentioned. It could not be the Nine, could it? He had heard whispers and rumours, but without proof of any kind he had not placed much faith in them. But in the light of Sauron's re-emergence, it made a disturbing sort of sense that his minions were also at large once more.

And this was the danger Gandalf would send his cousin into, without training or preparation? The wizard's brain must have been thoroughly addled by the excessive smoking of the hobbits' beloved Old Toby. Thráin had a fondness for the leaf himself, but he indulged only occasionally. Had Gandalf lost his marbles completely?

'This quest,' he said, thoughtfully. 'How many will be there to protect you?' She was his kin; he had a right to be concerned.

'Protect me?' she asked in confusion. 'I am not going to be the one they are going to protect.'

If there was a woman, all the menfolk would defend her. He was coming to understand that it was not so in her world, but it was in this one. 'Answer the question.'

'There are going to be nine companions,' she said. 'But four of them are hobbits.'

Maker have mercy on the wizard when he would finally get his hands on him. 'Never make the mistake of underestimating the strength and determination of hobbits,' he counselled her. 'Though they are no great warriors, they have a resilience and a resourcefulness seldom found in other races.' He grinned. 'Provided you feed them seven times a day and ensure they never run out of tea.'

It had the effect he had been hoping for; she laughed. But the sound of it did little to ease Thráin's worries. And he felt that someone or something was pushing him towards a path that he did not wish to tread. But he felt ever more strongly that he was not left with many other choices. And the more he heard, the more convinced he became that sending this woman off into danger on her own would both be irresponsible and unforgiveable.

But there was that other tie that called him back east, to the family that he knew instinctively needed him. War was marching on his home and here he was, getting ever more entangled in the plots of a wizard's making. He felt like he was caught in a web and the harder he tried to fight his way to freedom, the tighter the strings bound him. All of a sudden he knew with unshakable certainty that he would not see his home before this war was fought.

And for that alone he would make sure to blister Gandalf's ears when he arrived.

'I don't suppose that will happen on the road,' Beth said, all serious again.

'I don't imagine it will,' Thráin agreed. 'But they are remarkable creatures regardless and you could not wish for friendlier company.'

Beth nodded. 'I know. It's just, I wish I knew what it was Gandalf wants me to do. It'd be easier if I had an actual purpose. And like you said, some of the things of the past are already different. If Kate already changed the setting of the board, how am I supposed to know what I am doing?'

He knew that once the words would leave his lips, there would be no way back for him. He certainly did not want to utter then, but loyalty to family made him do so anyway. 'A second pair of eyes to study your book might be of some use,' he said. 'I have travelled the world and know much of the current situation.' In truth, he knew more about the situation in the east. He had not been to Gondor since the incident in the dungeon thirty years previous and the last time he had visited Rohan must have been more than ten years past by now. But Beth needn't know that.

She looked up at him, confusion making a frown in her forehead. 'You would?' He could tell that she tried to disguise her relief, but she was no good at it.

'I cannot in good conscience make you face that amount of danger by yourself,' he said. 'So, yes, I offer you my service, should you have need of it.'

It became at once apparent that she had not quite understood him right. 'Wait, you would come with me? On that quest?'

There was no way back now. The offer had been made and he could not withdraw it. While Thráin hated the need for it, he also knew that he made the right choice and that was enough to give him some peace of mind. The path had been chosen and the choosing had been the hard part. Now all he had to do was stick to it to whatever end and, because he was a dwarf and he belonged to a race that took pride in the keeping of promises, that came easier to him.

'I would,' he said.

For all that she had been among dwarves for the better part of three weeks, she still did not grasp the concept of loyalty to kin. 'Why?' she asked, bewildered. 'No, seriously, why? I mean, I know we're related and I'm starting to get that you somehow feel responsible for me, but that is taking familial duty to a whole new level.'

'It is the way of my people,' Thráin explained, trying to extinguish the fire of fury that he felt at her doubts. He had to remember that she had not been raised in the same way he had been and from what he had heard, loyalty was a meaningless concept where she came from. 'And the way of it among friends.' He fixed her with a stern stare. 'This is not your world, Beth.'

'They do things differently here,' she said softly, wryly.

'You had better get used to it,' he told her. 'And take care with your words around others. Not many others will take them as you mean them. Because to them they may mean something else entirely.'

Now he had riled her. One eyebrow was raised in question as she asked: 'The way you took care with your words in front of Lord Elrond?'

'I never said not to show your anger to those deserving of it,' he retorted. His conduct may have been questionable, but it had been justified as well.

And speaking of those deserving. Gimli came barrelling into the room without so much as bothering to knock, his face as red as his beard. 'Our waiting is at an end,' he announced when he skidded to a stop barely an inch from the table. 'The wizard has just arrived.'

At last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: a long-awaited meeting.
> 
> Unfortunately that meeting is going to have to wait. Real life has just caught up with me, reminding me that until late May/early June I won't have a lot of time. So until then updates for this story will at best be irregular, but more likely not forthcoming. I really, really don't like that, but these next couple chapters will be difficult to write and I want to be able to guarantee the quality, rather than publishing shorter chapters that won't be as good. There might be some Duly Noted chapters while you wait, so you won't be cut off entirely.
> 
> My apologies for this. I'm really, really sorry.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Reviews would be most welcome.


	15. A Dagger in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for my long absence. I am back now with regular Sunday updates. There are two more chapters already written and another in progress, so I am confident I’ll be able to keep it up. Sorry again.  
> Enjoy the new chapter!

_Those words of Gimli’s heralded the beginning of a new period. We had all been waiting for weeks, and true enough, the dwarves had been doing their waiting for longer than I had. So it was about time that Gandalf made an appearance. Goodness knows I was full of questions that I wanted and needed to ask him._

_But I was also wondering about the kind of man he was. Because I had heard the dwarves talking about him and they made no secret of their obvious dislike for him. They painted him as a meddlesome schemer who looked at Middle Earth like one would at a chess board, making its inhabitants the pieces he could move about as he pleased. From her letters I had learned that Kate shared this opinion. Well, she would, given what had happened to her. Following from that should that I looked on him likewise._

_But I didn’t and I was determined not to form an opinion before I was in possession of all the facts. It was something that was important in my line of work and even though I was hardly doing my usual job, I found that its demands had always served me well in every other aspect of my life._

_And I had read about the grey wizard and while I agreed with Thráin that it wouldn’t kill him to share what he knew with other people, I also did not think he played the puppet master. He had, after all, the world’s best interest at heart. And as a character he seemed kind to me, and wise, and friendly. He seemed like the kind of person who enabled others to live up to their full potential. He had nudged one reluctant hobbit out of his comfortable life and onto the road and he had become a hero, quite to his own surprise._

_He had done more or less the same to Kate Andrews, though I admit that he did not quite foresee what she would turn out to be. Had he researched her as I had, he might have known that she was unpredictable and hard to contain, but he hadn’t, hence the world as it was as opposed to the world of the book. The changes were seemingly only in the little things, things of little consequence. There was another king on the throne of Erebor. But how could that matter as long as he opposed Sauron as Dáin would have done? And then there was that most unlikely friendship between a dwarf of Durin’s Folk and a Ranger. Unlikely maybe, but hardly important in the greater picture._

_I have found that it’s often just the little things that make the most ripples in the pond, growing into tidal waves over time._

_Of course, we were still very much at the beginning of the tale. We had no idea what the coming months would bring. And so I followed Thráin from the room on his quest to ambush a travel-weary wizard and demand some answers out of him…_

 

‘You have some explaining to do, wizard.’ Thráin wasted absolutely no time in launching his verbal assault on Gandalf; the door had not even fallen shut behind them. Lord Elrond had not even issued an invitation to enter yet. Then again, Thráin hadn’t bothered to knock before he barged in on his righteous mission. Beth could really only follow and maintain a low profile until her cousin had run out of steam. But from the looks of him, that might take a while.

Elrond had been in conference with a tall man all dressed in grey, right down to the pointy hat perching on his grey hair. It was hardly a miracle why he was called Gandalf the Grey. And with that he was in stark contrast with the friendly colours the elves of Rivendell favoured. The only part of his clothing not grey was the last three inches of the hem of his cloak, stained with mud from the road. He had not even taken the time to change into clean clothes. Of course, it remained to be seen if Thráin would have allowed him time to do so.

The wizard looked at them and his forehead wrinkled in annoyance. ‘Well met, Thráin, son of Thorin. I see time has not remedied your lack of manners.’

Thráin was not to be beaten down. ‘Nor yours,’ he returned. ‘May I introduce my cousin, Beth Andrews?’

Those piercing eyes now settled on her and she felt as if she was scrutinised, subjected to a test of some sort and she was found wanting. And even though she wanted to be sent back, it still made her feel quite uneasy.

‘Pleasure to meet you,’ she said.

The wizard nodded at her. ‘Our advisor has arrived,’ he concluded. ‘Good, good.’

‘She has,’ Thráin said. ‘With her son, who is only six years of age.’ He had clearly decided that Beth was too slow in raging at the man he clearly had no liking for and so took it upon himself to fill that role. She wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Of course, she still had no idea what to make of him. She was fairly certain that he was a friend, who would stand by her when she needed him. But other than that he was a complete mystery and as unpredictable as the weather. He could be joking one moment and then be all stern and disapproving the next. Trying to figure him out could only result in a fierce headache.

Clearly Gandalf had not expected this. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see. That is a most unfortunate development, for which you have my most sincere apologies.’ These last few words were directed at Beth. ‘I was under the impression you had no children.’

She felt uneasy knowing that there was a good reason why he had come to that particular conclusion. ‘Harry spent a lot of time with his aunt and uncle in the spring,’ she replied. And a good portion of time before that as well, but the wizard did not really need to know that. Her issues with being a mother, as Mary had so eloquently phrased it, were none of the wizard’s concern and they were a thing of the past now anyway. She had stepped up. And no one, not even a wizard, had the right to judge her for what she may or may not have done.

Gandalf appeared a little uncomfortable. ‘May I ask about the father?’

It had been one thing sharing that with Thráin; all things considered he was family and even though she didn’t know him quite well yet, he seemed like someone she might trust. Even more so, he seemed like someone who, thanks to his mother, at least had some basic understanding of her world. Gandalf did not.

‘You may not.’ Then again, her tone would make it quite clear that wherever Harry’s father was, he was not relevant. _He wouldn’t send Harry back to Alex, would he?_ The thought was promptly followed by a wave of panic and surprisingly, anger. That man had no right whatsoever to even know Harry, not after leaving like that. And if the wizard thought that was the solution to this problem, she would soon set him right. ‘Harry will stay right here with me.’

Until the quest anyway. Goodness knew what she would do then. He most certainly could not come with her. The mere idea chilled her to the bone. Beth may not win the Mother of the Year Award anytime soon, but she wasn’t about to let her little boy walk right into danger either.

Gandalf put up his hands in a somewhat pacifying manner. ‘That was not what I offered, Miss Andrews.’ He waited a few seconds to see if she would correct him on the Miss Andrews. She did not and he went on: ‘But this does present us with a problem.’

Thráin clearly smelled an opportunity to put in his two cents. ‘There doesn’t have to be one if you do the right thing this time and send her back to where she came from, wizard.’ Thus far, that was the only way he had addressed Gandalf. Not once had he used his name. Beth felt that maybe that was intentional.

Gandalf smiled. ‘You know, I think, that that is not an option.’

Thráin was glaring so hard it was a miracle Gandalf hadn’t turned to dust on the spot. ‘It is an option,’ he insisted. ‘If you let me take her place in your foolish schemes.’

That took all of them by surprise, Beth maybe even most of all. Blimey, she knew he was unpredictable, but even when he had made the offer to come with her on the quest, she felt a certain reluctance on his part, as if he would rather make nice with elves than be weighed down with that kind of commitment. There was no reluctance now.

And it sent her reeling. When was the last time someone had done such a selfless thing for her? She searched her mind and came up empty.

Whatever Gandalf had anticipated, this was clearly not it either. Both he and Elrond had been struck dumb and while the Lord of Rivendell had a semblance of control over his own face, Gandalf did not.

Thráin took advantage of the temporary silence to sell his point. ‘Beth is in possession of the book, true enough, but she does not have to be the one to read it. And I know what to do. My mother did it, so can I.’

Judging by the frown on Gandalf’s face, he wasn’t all that happy with what Kate had done. From the letters Beth had gotten the impression that he merely wanted Kate to change the ending, so that fewer lives would be lost. But because he had actually not the first idea who he was dealing with, he had not only gotten a changed ending; Kate had simply kicked over the entire board.

‘I very much doubt that.’ It was hard to tell if there was irony in those words or not. Now that he had somewhat recovered, he was almost entirely unreadable. Truth be told, the literal smokescreen he conjured up by smoking did not help matters.

Thráin snorted. ‘You need a better outcome,’ he stated. He studied the wizard’s face and clearly saw something Beth did not, because he shook his head and corrected himself: ‘No, you need someone who knows the outcome, who can keep the future on track, because you don’t know it.’

Beth frowned. ‘You haven’t read the book?’ Kate had been as good as sure that he had, or that he’d read _The Hobbit_ at least. She had been mightily annoyed at that, hence the reason Beth knew about it; the topic had come up more than once in the letters.

‘Knowing too much of the future can be a power too great to resist for someone like me.’ It didn’t feel like he was holding back now. And it was more or less in tune with what she’d read about him, when Frodo tried to offer him the Ring and he refused for almost the exact same reason.

And it just clicked in her mind. ‘That’s why you need the little people,’ she breathed. ‘People like Bilbo and Frodo and Kate and me. Don’t you?’ She looked at the grey wizard directly and he granted her the courtesy of putting down his pipe so she could actually see into his eyes. ‘You don’t need the leaders and kings. Well, obviously, you need them too, but not as much as us.’

The pieces of the puzzle were still falling into place. If this had been one of her usual investigations, this would be the turning point, the point where everything became clear, the point from where the book would practically write itself. But this was not just a case of getting to the bottom of a mystery of the past. This one would dictate the future. And she did not like where it led her.

But now that she’d started talking, she didn’t seem to be able to stop. ‘You need the little people, the people nobody thinks much of, and then you nudge them out of their comfort zones into the big, bad world, where they have to be braver and stronger and wiser than they think they are. And meanwhile, very subtly, they in turn nudge history this way or that, as you’ve planned all along.’

This theory of hers did put him in the role of puppet master, and she might have been more annoyed, even angry, had she thought of it two weeks ago. As it was, she wasn’t sure what to make of it just yet.

‘But Kate was different. She became too big.’ Kate had not been content to stay in the background. And if Thráin was anything at all like her, he wouldn’t be either. All of a sudden she was very sure that Thráin’s selfless offer would not be taken. There’d be a reason, no doubt, maybe even a good one, but the end result would be the same.

‘So, you understand.’ Gandalf did not ask. He merely observed. There was kindness in his eyes, maybe even regret.

‘I do not like it.’ That she understood otherwise changed nothing.

‘Nor should you.’ Thráin was not done fighting.

Perhaps he did not realise yet that it wouldn’t make a difference, that in the end, things would happen as the wizard had planned. No, not just because he planned it. He needed her. For whatever reason, Lord knew why, he thought he needed Beth Andrews to see this through.

‘Take my offer.’ Thráin did not ask; he demanded. ‘Send Beth and her son back to their world and hire me instead. You’ve no reason not to. Any old fool can read a book and I have my mother’s tales to guide me.’

Gandalf didn’t frown again, but his silence spoke for him. He really hadn’t liked Kate much, had he? Then again, from what she’d read it had become clear that the feeling had been entirely mutual; Kate hadn’t cared much for Gandalf either. Beth was not convinced she liked the wizard, but unlike Kate, she could see the greater need that had all but forced him into acting. It did not make her feel any better about being used, manipulated and abducted, but if the need was really that great, she might be prepared to allow that there were mitigating circumstances.

‘You have your father’s single-mindedness and your mother’s temperament, Thráin, son of Thorin.’ Oh, he was not pleased at all. ‘The world has enough of that.’

‘And yet you chose my mother,’ Thráin countered. ‘And when the time came to choose another advisor, you chose another one of her family. Much as you don’t like it, you apparently need us. If my mother was that much of a mistake, you wouldn’t have taken the risk her kinswoman was just the same.’

And he had a point as well. This whole conversation was starting to give her something of a headache. Nothing was clear, nothing explained. She was grasping at shadows and smoke. Had she felt like she had seen the whole picture just a few minutes ago, now she felt like maybe she had only caught a glance of small piece of the puzzle. And she was supposed to make sense of it? All of a sudden she had a whole new appreciation for Kate’s work. How had she done it? How had she even known where to begin?

‘Beth is not Kate,’ Gandalf remarked.

‘But an Andrews all the same.’ Thráin was frowning hard, as if he might realise what was going on if he only made enough of an effort. ‘An Andrews you took from her world in much the same way as you did my mother. You did not ask for her permission and she did not give her consent. Where I come from we call that abduction, wizard. It’s not a practise we approve of.’ His voice was low and surprisingly soft and he sounded _dangerous_ all of a sudden, more so than he had when he’d all but brought the roof down in his fury.

‘Our need is greater than you know, Thráin.’ Gandalf appeared weary. Well, he would be, if the book had got the bit about him right.

‘Yet not so great surely that you had to resort to these measures.’ If there was one thing Beth had learned about dwarves, it was that they were so stubborn it almost defied belief. Thráin was like a dog with a bone. He would not rest until Gandalf had admitted that what he had done was wrong.

But clearly a wizard could easily out-stubborn a dwarf. ‘You do not yet see the full picture,’ he said.

‘I know enough.’ Thráin was curt and rude. ‘I know my homeland will soon be under siege from Mordor and the East both. I know dark things are stirring in both Mordor and Dol Guldur. I know that the Nine are active once more.’ That was something he could only have heard from Beth when she mentioned the nine creepy ghosts. As far as she was aware, he hadn’t actually read the book. Yet.

Judging by Gandalf’s face, he was absolutely right. But the shock quickly made way for something closer resembling anger and he rounded on Beth instead. ‘What have you done?’

‘Beg pardon?’

‘I haven’t touched her book.’ Thráin on the other hand understood what was going on. ‘But I will.’

‘You are not the right person for this mission.’ Gandalf was rapidly running out of patience and it showed. It occurred to Beth that while he may have the best interests of this world at heart, he was not someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of. He was after all a wizard and while he probably didn’t go around turning people into toads, he’d know plenty of other ways to make life pretty miserable.

Thráin snorted in derision. ‘But my cousin is?’

‘You are never going to send me back until I do as you ask, are you?’ She had this feeling that settled in her stomach, like she had swallowed a bunch of rocks. It tasted like resignation to her. ‘There was never any choice for me, was there?’

At least he was honest about it. ‘If there had been another way, I would have chosen it.’

Maybe it was an Andrews trait to not go down without a fight. Either way, she couldn’t really help herself. ‘Maybe you could have asked instead of resorting to subterfuge. Who knows, I might have said yes. Willingly,’ she added, tagging a stern stare at the end of it.

Gandalf smiled ruefully. ‘My dear girl, would you have believed me if I did?’

Beth had nothing to say to that. It had taken seeing Rivendell for her to believe that Middle Earth existed in the first place. If someone had come round to her house, peddling this story, she’d have called the cops on them. It was too insane to be believed.

 _Pull yourself together._ ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But if I am going to do this, there are conditions.’ If she was forced to follow in Kate’s footsteps, at the very least she could learn from her mistakes. ‘Fail to agree and good luck getting me to budge.’ She was nowhere near as obstinate as Thráin’s mum had been, but she did know how to put her foot down.

‘Do continue,’ Gandalf invited.

‘Harry’s safety is guaranteed.’ This was the one point that was absolutely non-negotiable. Her son would be kept safe or she would throw the book into the nearest hearth she could find and that would be it. ‘I don’t care how dangerous this world has become, if he’s got as much as a scratch on him by the end of this, I’ll make you regret it.’ And she would.

Elrond finally made himself heard again. ‘There is no need for threats in this house, Miss Andrews. Your son will be well looked after.’

‘Aye, he will, but not by you.’ Thráin had made no secret of his distrust of elves before and clearly he had no reservations about saying it to their faces either. ‘The lad is my own kin. He is our responsibility.’

Beth didn’t know what to make of this. Arrangements concerning her son went through her. No dwarf, family or not, was going to take that away from her. If she wanted to entrust Harry to the elves, she bloody well would.

She shot him an angry glance. ‘We will discuss that later.’ She turned back to Gandalf. ‘And you will deliver a message to my family. I will write it, don’t worry, but you will deliver it. I won’t have them search for me like they did for Kate.’

She thought she something resembling guilt cross his face, but it was gone again in a heartbeat. ‘Naturally.’

Next to her she heard Thráin grumble something along the lines of this courtesy not being extended to his mother. Then, had Kate asked for that favour in particular? According to the letters, she had asked again and again to be sent home. She never asked for this compromise. Had she, would Gandalf have complied? Maybe. Either way, even wizards could apparently learn from their mistakes.

With that in mind, she made her last condition: ‘No shady games like you did with Kate. When I ask, you answer. If you don’t know the answer, fine, but tell me. Those are my terms. Take them or leave them, but I won’t do anything until I have your word they will be honoured.’

Gandalf looked at her solemnly. ‘You have my word, Miss Andrews. Do I have yours?’ It was almost as though he could see right through her.

Every fibre of her being screamed to run, but she was no child that she thought that would solve anything. Beth nodded. ‘You do.’

* * *

 

There were times when being King under the Mountain was the loneliest position in the whole world, Thoren reflected. It was certainly the most responsible and there was no one in all of Erebor to really share it with. Well, folk would say that there was, that there were more people than they had fingers and toes to count on who would be glad of the honour to assist him. True enough, he supposed. His kith and kin would be only too glad to do what they could to ease his way.

But no effort of theirs was going to remove the threat of Mordor. He’d heard only bits and pieces of the sheer size of the enemy armies from Dwalin, Lufur and Jack, all of whom had ridden out for Elvaethor’s rescue. The way he had heard it, it had been a terrifying venture that had ended with his people charging recklessly into the heart of an enemy camp. Fortunately, they had also made it back out again with Elvaethor in tow, leaving chaos and death in their wake. All the same, he was relieved he hadn’t known just how dangerous the mission had been until all of them had safely returned.

‘There’s no need to dawdle outside the door.’ He was snapped out of his thoughts by Thora. ‘Our elf is sleeping, but Jack’s still awake if you needed to speak with him.’

He did need to talk to his brother, not in the least to give him a piece of his mind for being so idiotically reckless all the bloody time and then to warn him that Duria would give him the same lecture when she was finally told the details of what had passed. But it was Elvaethor he had really come to see tonight.

‘Elvaethor’s asleep?’ he asked, just to be sure.

Thora smiled, almost apologetically. ‘Ah, that may be my mistake. The trouble with elves is that you never quite know how much pain potion you ought to give ‘em. Our folk, you give them a sip and they’re out cold for the night. Elves need a little more to achieve even a tenth of that result.’

Thoren frowned. ‘How much more?’

‘Well, not more, exactly. I’d had to change the recipe a little, to make it strong enough.’ She almost looked sheepish.

He amended his question. ‘How strong?’

‘Certainly enough to put a full-grown mountain troll out of business, that’s for sure. And then some.’ Thora was nothing if not flippant. Thoren struggled to think if he had ever even seen her out of sorts. He didn’t think so. ‘Guess I must have overdone it a little. Either way, he probably won’t wake anytime soon. Of course, he’s an elf by birth and a dwarf by choice. Maker knows what he’ll actually do.’

Thoren managed a tight smile. It may be childish of him, but he was almost angry with his aunt for doing her work so well. Her patient’s welfare ought to be her first priority. It should be Thoren’s as well. But in times like these, he craved the steady guidance of his elvish friend. To find that he had to go without was a disappointment he didn’t quite manage to swallow after the day he’d had.

 _Bad news upon bad news and where will it end?_ With the destruction of Erebor or with a victory against seemingly impossible odds? The more he learned, the less likely the latter became.

‘You know it’ll all come right in the end, don’t you?’ Thora looked at him in sympathy.

And he had no use for empty words this night. ‘None can know that,’ he replied brusquely. ‘And the odds are firmly stacked against us.’

‘They were stacked against your ma and da too when they went up against a dragon,’ she said sensibly. ‘And they came out all right.’ She patted him on the shoulder, which was a bit awkward all things considered. Thora was small and Thoren quite tall and she had to stand on tiptoes to reach him. Still, the gesture was a friendly one and at least somewhat reassuring. ‘Your family’s got a way of achieving the impossible, lad, even if it’s only because they’re too stubborn to listen to folk who say it can’t be done.’

He smiled wryly. ‘It’s your family too,’ he reminded her.

Thora merely shrugged. ‘I just managed to drug a full-grown elf, didn’t I?’ She gestured towards the door. ‘Go on, he might surprise us again. And I reckon you’d like a word with your brother as well.’

Oh, he’d like a word with Jack, but the brother whose presence he really needed was currently somewhere on the other side of the Misty Mountains, or Maker knew where Thráin was at the moment. With any luck, he would already be well on his way back, home before the coming winter would make crossing the mountains all but impossible. Not that Thráin had let impossibilities like that stop him before. Thora had that right at the very least; Thoren’s family really didn’t accept it when they were told something or other was undoable. They went ahead and did it anyway.

Jack was a shining example as well. He had disregarded all sensible advice to go to bed and rest now that he was safely home again and had instead elected to drag a chair over to Elvaethor’s bed to keep an eye on his friend. Truth be told, Thoren understood that much. Now that he was asleep and could no longer pretend it was not as bad as it looked, Elvaethor looked like he had gone up against an army of foes all on his own. If the stories could be believed, that was of course exactly what he’d done.

‘I’m not sure what Aunt Thora gave him, but it must be strong,’ Jack remarked when he noticed Thoren’s arrival.

Thoren grimaced. ‘According to her she’s given him a potion that’d be sufficient to put a fully grown mountain troll out of business.’

‘I’d believe that.’ Jack snorted, then winced.

‘Get to bed, Jack,’ Thoren told him. ‘I can take over.’ It was not as though he was getting any sleep tonight.

‘No longer a child, in case you haven’t noticed.’ His brother sounded distinctly annoyed. ‘And someone should really tell Duria that sometime.’

‘She’s already been here, hasn’t she?’ Durin’s beard, he’d hoped to keep her in the dark for at least another night. Then again, he should have known that secrets did not have long lives when Duria was in the general vicinity.

‘My ears are still ringing,’ Jack confirmed. ‘And Elvaethor managed to somehow sleep through all of it.’ He managed something that with a little imagination could pass for a grin. ‘Like I said, Aunt Thora must have given him a really strong potion.’

‘Well, she does say sleep is a good medicine.’ Thoren shrugged. ‘Come, I’ll walk you to your bed and then we can talk. I wouldn’t want to wake our elf. Not that it’s very likely,’ he added quickly when it looked like Jack was about to point out the error in his reasoning.

At least his brother complied, which was testimony enough to how exhausted he must be. Thoren doubted he’d slept more than a few hours altogether these past two weeks. Of course, dwarves could function on less rest than men – though they appreciated a full night’s sleep as much as anybody – but even they weren’t made to forego sleep entirely.

He settled Jack in bed and then, to avoid giving the impression of mothering him, asked: ‘Tell me what happened.’

Jack arched an eyebrow at him. ‘Haven’t you heard the tale by now?’

Honesty dictated he admitted to being told by both Dwalin and Lufur. ‘But I would have it from you as well.’

For a moment it looked like Jack was going to object, but then he decided to for just this once take the easy way out. ‘The way I understand it, Elvaethor followed the spies for several days and took them out just before they reached their camp. But of course he was seen, being so close and all.’ It sounded like something Jack might have done himself. Elvaethor was not known for his recklessness, but even he clearly made exceptions to the rule.

‘Maker be good.’

‘I reckon he was, given that Elvaethor was still alive when we found him.’ Thoren could hear the barely contained rage in his voice. ‘Though it was not for a lack of trying.’ Their friend’s current state was testimony enough.

‘How did you find him?’ Thoren asked.

‘The Easterlings were not that hard to find,’ Jack replied. ‘Their camp is vast, Thoren. There were more than we anticipated. And they’re ready. They won’t wait for spring.’

Dwalin and Lufur had told him much the same. ‘I shouldn’t have been so bloody eager to enrage Sauron’s envoy.’

He knew he’d made a mistake that day, that he’d let his temper get the best of him. True enough that it had been the honourable thing to do, but the fact remained that had he played it as an elf might do, keep the envoy waiting under the guise of “thinking over” the offer, they might have had more time. Instead he had called the Dark Lord’s rage on himself, had openly defied him. It didn’t take a genius to work out that Sauron would not stand for that.

‘Don’t see how you could have done anything else.’ Jack merely shrugged. ‘We’re not elves that we’d play games with him, are we?’

Thoren sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. What happened?’

Jack grinned and then made another face. ‘We created a diversion, then went in, grabbed Elvaethor and were out again before the Easterlings had quite recovered from the surprise.’

He’d heard about that. ‘Were you completely out of your mind, Jack? Setting fire in that camp? Even if you hadn’t burned yourself, how could you be certain you didn’t place Elvaethor in harm’s way?’ The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He knew for a fact that his brother wasn’t stupid; he was intelligent enough usually. But it appeared that he’d at the very least been struck by temporary insanity.

‘Just keeping in touch with an old family tradition,’ he answered. When Thoren did not immediately cotton on, he clarified: ‘ _Adad_ and _amad_ , setting Mirkwood on fire? Remember?’

This time he was sure he made the kind of sputtering noises Uncle Dori made when Nori had done something so completely foolish that words failed him.

Jack was smart enough to not wait for him to rediscover his voice. ‘Anyway, you ought to be glad I’m getting in touch with my family heritage.’ The words were bitter and sarcastic and Thoren would have called him out on it, had Jack not beaten him to it. ‘Yes, I know, you don’t approve. And we didn’t go in half-arsed either. We found out where he was kept before we made a move.’

Thoren didn’t think he quite liked the sound of that. He narrowed his eyes at his brother. ‘Exactly how did you manage that?’

‘Knocked out an Easterling, stole his uniform and then made a little stroll around camp.’ Jack sounded really rather pleased with himself. ‘It wasn’t hard. What was hard was exercising sufficient self-control not to kill any of those bastards on the spot for what they had done.’ The rage was more pronounced now. He looked over to Elvaethor’s bed. ‘He looked worse than he does now, if you can imagine it.’

Thoren did not particularly want to.

So he focused on something else. ‘You walked into an enemy camp _alone_?’ Jack was rash up to a point where it became almost suicidal at times, but he had really outdone himself now.

In saying this, he’d given his brother a target. ‘Aye, I did. I was the only one tall enough to pass for one. So allow me to make good use of it the one time my height actually serves me. And do forgive me if I’ve used it to save a friend of ours. Or had you rather I’d left him there to die?’

As much as they’d all wish that he could let his resentment go, it was still as alive as it had been for the past decades. _Maker have mercy on us, will he never find peace?_

He was about to really tear into Jack and give him his very best Dori imitation, but movement in the corner of his eye made him stop.

It was as though there was an eternity between one heartbeat and the next and he could see the world with perfect clarity: the tall, hooded figure, the quiet and fluent movements, the reflection of candlelight on bared steel, the stranger’s proximity to Elvaethor…

_No._

The world sped up from an eternity to a hardly visible blur with the next heartbeat. Thoren was barely aware of his own movements; he was out of his chair and halfway across the room. He was only vaguely aware of the minor details: his chair crashing against the ground, Jack at his heels, the fact that both of them were completely unarmed. None of it really mattered.

His collision with the intruder sent both of them sprawling to the ground, but at least Thoren managed to prevent a head-on collision with the beds leg the way the face of the attacker did. Even better, such a blow would at the very least disorientate the attacker for a minute or two, which would give him time to disarm him.

Or not.

The intruder recovered faster than he should and kicked back, right into Thoren’s stomach, which left him gasping. He was on his feet faster than any man had a right to be and lunged for Elvaethor, all attempt at secrecy now abandoned.

Jack may have been injured, but he was not entirely out of commission. He had been right behind Thoren and barrelled into the would-be assassin the way his older brother had just done. Their momentum sent them crashing against Elvaethor’s bed and then over it to the other side. Thoren heard the sound of something breaking and prayed hard that it was the intruder’s skull and not Jack’s bones.

‘Durin’s stinking beard!’ At least it hadn’t been Jack’s neck.

Thoren ran around the bed, intending to jump on the man’s back and twist his neck if that was what it took, but he was already too late; he was already standing, dagger still in hand. Something wasn’t right about this, beside an attacker in the healing rooms. How in the name of all that was holy had he gotten in here without being noticed? Where had he come from? And how did this fellow move so quick?

‘Drop your weapon and surrender,’ he ordered, taking care to place himself between the man and Elvaethor. Jack was still trying to get up, but making the kind of sound indicating that, unlike his opponent, he had broken something.

From this position he should have gotten a good look in at the face, but the stranger was wearing a mask. There were small slits for the eyes and mouth, maybe the nose, but in this light he could not even see the colour of his eyes, never mind make out any more details. And there was no additional information in the clothes either. They were well-made, dark and of good quality cloth. Other than that, they could belong to anyone.

The silence with which he command was answered was unnerving. He stood still, but he had the air of a predator about to prance about him; this wasn’t over yet.

‘Back away,’ Thoren warned. ‘He is under my protection and you won’t have him.’ He was enraged that this man had even attempted to murder an injured fellow. Of course, it would be foolish to expect honour from one such as this.

The stranger did the exact opposite and tried to strike again. He was fast, Thoren had to give him that. This time he managed to land a blow on the arm that pushed the attack away from Elvaethor. Thoren threw himself after it and managed to tackle the man to the ground again. At least this time he was quick enough to land on the fellow’s stomach and pin him to the ground. And a man might be quicker than a dwarf, but when it came to strength, dwarves had the upper hand.

Having said that, Thoren may have underestimated the assailant. The knife came up and grazed his face all the way from chin to forehead. He scarcely felt it. If he’d had time to think he might have taken a moment to be grateful to his tutors, Dwalin chief among them, for their rigorous training. As it was, he had none to spare. But there was just enough time to grab the wrist, then squeeze and twist at the same time. The sound of breaking bone was like music to his ears and, true to expectations, the attacker at last let go of the dagger. Thoren could hear it fall to the ground, but he did not see where and he had no time to look for it now. If fortune favoured him at all today, Jack would take care of it.

His opponent’s right arm may have been taken care of, but he had another still left at his disposal, which he promptly put to good use. He managed to land a blow on Thoren’s chin that caused him to let go of the man’s right wrist.

Something was wrong, his mind told him. The man was too strong, there was too much force behind his attacks.

At the edge of his vision, Jack was getting to his feet again, ready to re-join the fight. The man had noticed too, because he acted. He used Thoren’s temporary disorientation to dislodge him from his stomach and send him headfirst into the bedside table. Logic dictated he would have another go at Elvaethor – Durin’s stinking beard, where had that dagger gone? – but instead he made a run for it, out of the room.

‘Bloody hell!’ Jack growled, an old favourite’s of their mother. There was nothing wrong with his legs, because he managed full speed when he raced after the man, only to come to a sudden standstill in the doorway. ‘Where’d he go?’ He turned back to Thoren. ‘He’s gone.’

He couldn’t be. Thoren made for the doorway and looked down the corridor, left, right, straight ahead. There was no sight of him and there were no places to hide, not here.

‘I’ll alert the guard,’ he said.

Jack scoffed. ‘Not a chance. You look like you’ve gone for a round of sparring with a rabid warg. I’ll handle it.’ Never mind that he had a few injuries that could lead a body to exactly the same conclusion. But he was on his way before Thoren could open his mouth to protest.

It gave him time to ascertain the truth of his brother’s observation; his head was starting to throb, he could taste blood on his tongue and when he carefully brushed his hand over his face, it came away red. He recalled that he’d gotten on the wrong side of that dagger. That would go some way in explaining that injury.

This realisation led his thoughts back to the dagger. Now that the fight was over, he could locate it easily. It had slid half under the bed, but not so far that he had to get on his knees to retrieve it.

‘This is no man’s dagger,’ he told Jack when he came back into the room. He handed the weapon to his brother. ‘Have a look at the craftsmanship.’ Jack had to take it with his left hand; his right arm was hanging awkwardly by his side. Thoren knew it had been hurt before the fight, but it appeared worse now.

‘Aunt Thora’s coming to get a look at your face,’ Jack informed him. ‘And the guards have been alerted.’ Only when he had delivered his report did he do as he was asked. ‘This is elven craftsmanship. No man or dwarf would forge a weapon like that.’ He frowned. ‘Or deliver a blow like that. He was stronger than a man ought to be.’

Thoren nodded. He was already well aware of that fact.

Jack looked up from the dagger. ‘An elf did this?’ He could not have sounded more incredulous if he tried. And he was right to; it did not make any sense. Elvaethor had vexed his elven brethren more than any other elf before him, but that would not cause them to retaliate in this manner. Elves frowned on kinslaying the same way dwarves did. ‘On the very same day we brought him back home after imprisonment in the Easterling camp?’

The timing was suspicious, but until Jack opened his mouth, Thoren had never seriously considered the possibility of an elf going over to the wrong side. They had always, without fail, fought the darkness. Was that about to change now? ‘Maker be good,’ he said. Was there any certainty left in this world at all?

Jack nodded. ‘They were going to silence him.’

No, that was taking matters too far. ‘It cannot be.’

But Jack insisted. ‘He mentioned having overheard a thing or two during his captivity. I told him it could wait until we were home. He knows something the Enemy does not want us to know. I’m sure of it.’

Thoren shook his head and pointed out the flaw in Jack’s reasoning. ‘They would not have been so careless with their words around him.’

Jack promptly repaid the favour. ‘They didn’t intend for him to live to tell the tale. One doesn’t mind their words around the dead.’

Thoren could honestly have done without a reminder of how close he had come to losing their friend. And so he said nothing.

It was only in the silence that Jack’s attention wandered to the figure on the bed. ‘Bless my beard, he’s still sleeping.’

For a moment there Thoren thought he had the wrong of it, but then he looked for himself and saw that Jack was right. ‘How is that possible?’

And Jack laughed. ‘Forget the mountain troll,’ he said. ‘If this is what Aunt Thora’s pain potion does to an elf, I’d like to see what it does to a herd of Mûmakil!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action sequences are still not my strong point, but I hope it came across well enough.  
> Next time: the pride before the fall.  
> Thank you for reading. As always, I’d love to hear what you thought about this chapter (likes, dislikes, suspects), so reviews would be most welcome.  
> Until next week!


	16. The Pride Before the Fall

_Now that I had sealed the arrangement with Gandalf, I was well and truly trapped, with no way out. I prided myself in being a woman of my word and to try and wriggle my way out of the deal like Kate had attempted was not my way. I’ll admit that at the time I held that too as a point of pride._

_The trouble was that, despite having been trapped in the same role she fulfilled almost eight decades before, I thought myself better than her. I could make the better choices, keep sight of my objectives and priorities. I would never be so foolish as she had been and this world would not ever get its hooks into me the way they had gotten into Kate. I knew what I was about and I knew where I, where Harry, belonged._

_Of course, there is a very good reason for the saying that pride comes before a fall. And I was proud, and arrogant, though perhaps I hid it well. And I knew better than to mention my opinions of Kate and her actions to her son and his companions. They would not have taken it well and, with the benefit of hindsight, rightly so._

_Still, at the time, I certainly felt more responsible than I thought Kate must have been. Of course, I would be. I was seven years older than she was when she had been “invited” to partake in a quest, I was a mother and all things considered more level-headed and even-tempered. The question is: did this really matter in the end? I was certain that I had the advantage over Kate, that I would be able to be more sensible about my decisions and the advice that I would give._

_But it’s easy to be confident before all is said and done. It turned out eventually that I should have taken a leaf out of my predecessor’s book in admitting that I did not have a clue what to do. As it was, the cracks were already beginning to show…_

 

‘Argh!’

The sound of unadulterated frustration caused Thráin to look up from his book. Well, it was not his book, if he was being honest, and it wasn’t Beth’s book either, not truly. The name written on the title page was his mother’s, claiming ownership of the tome he currently held. Thoren would give his right hand – and probably his left too if it were necessary – to hold this.

And then he would be heavily disappointed. Thráin had leafed through the book, but as far as he could see the only information on the war that would take place in his homeland was at the very back in the appendices. And from what he could see, most of that was useless as well. The situations were already too different.

 _I am sorry, brother._ He felt the disappointment himself. When he had taken it upon himself to assist his cousin, he hadn’t intended to use the book for the sake of his own people and he had never craved the knowledge contained in its pages the way his elder brother did. But it was difficult all the same when he did hold the book and found that there was next to nothing that would be of any use at all.

A second noise of frustration followed the first and then Thráin had to rapidly duck to avoid the crumpled note that sailed through the air. There were several such notes already littering the table where Beth was working.

Other folk would have asked her if she was all right, but Thráin did not bother. It was plain for all to see that she was not. ‘Do you need assistance?’ he asked instead, a much more useful question.

‘Sorry about the…’ She looked at the note that was now lying next to his chair. ‘You know.’

‘Letter-writing not going so well?’ That was probably not the most helpful query.

‘I am trying to think of something to write that will reassure my family and at the same time convince them that I haven’t lost my marbles,’ she replied. Judging by her dishevelled state, this was a task that was at the very least extremely exhausting.

He didn’t see the trouble. ‘Tell them the truth.’ Wasn’t that always the best way to go?

The look she threw him more than suggested he had been unbelievably naïve to even mention it. ‘No. Not in this situation.’

‘Because this world is a story.’ He had not forgotten that.

‘Exactly.’

‘Even so, it happened to my _amad_. And now it has happened to you. How much more proof could folk want?’ Maybe the truth was not the first idea the people in the other world would consider, but if the evidence pointed them in one direction only, surely they had to come to the right conclusion.

Apparently this was naïve too. ‘You don’t understand.’ She exhaled audibly.

‘So make me,’ he challenged her.

For a moment he thought she would refuse, but then the bag she had brought with her was pushed in his direction. ‘Read it,’ she instructed him. ‘Those are all the documents about your mother’s case, from before and after she wrote the letters and had them delivered. Please don’t mess them up.’

He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Because you will need them to write your book?’

The laugh that followed this was completely devoid of humour. ‘Hardly. Who would believe me if I wrote this down and had it published? I wouldn’t even get it published, to be quite honest. They’d sooner have my head examined.’

‘The people of your world mustn’t have much intelligence.’ If he did not want to antagonise her, this was quite possibly the wrong thing to say, but he still did not understand.

‘How can they not believe with the evidence available to them?’ Duria would have a word or two to say on the matter to be sure.

Beth was getting annoyed, he could tell. ‘I didn’t believe it until it happened to me.’ The tone was definitely snappish.

 _Durin’s beard_. ‘I am not talking about you.’ _Obviously_. Either way, she knew what had happened.

‘Those _were_ my views.’ That would explain it. ‘Those were supposed to _remain_ my views. This was never supposed to happen, not to me. If any member of my family was going to excel at this, it would have been Peter. He would have loved all of this. He’d have jumped at the chance, paid for the privilege even.’

‘Yet Gandalf chose you.’

Was that a lack of research, considering Gandalf could not have done it himself this time? The rules about this were quite clear: one could go to another world and then back to their own, but after that there was no possibility to cross over. That was what Gandalf had told his mother. But who was to say the wizard had spoken the truth? Thráin would not put it past him to lie.

Beth shrugged. ‘God knows what he was thinking. Maybe he just couldn’t find my brother. I don’t think he’s been back home for two months altogether in the past decade. He was in Germany the last time we spoke.’

The name meant nothing to him. ‘Gandalf did not go to your world, not this time.’

And he still had not discovered who had. It was certainly not Lord Elrond. And even if Gandalf had been truthful about the rules of inter-world travel, he would not have had the time. Be that as it may, he was all but convinced Gandalf’s errand boy lived in Rivendell. Failing that, he might decide to have a word with Strider about which of his Ranger friends may have struck up a friendship with the wizard.

‘Beg pardon?’

‘He couldn’t have,’ Thráin clarified. ‘He already ventured there when he chose my mother. Those are the rules. Once there, then back again and that is it. Because, according to our friendly wizard, travel between worlds isn’t meant to happen.’

Beth nodded, but he could see she did not understand. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘It’s done now.’

‘Your letter is not,’ he could not fail to observe.

‘Yeah, well, it becomes that much harder to explain where I am and what I’ll be doing when I have to leave the whole magic element out of said explanation.’ She saw he still did not get it and added: ‘My world has no magic. Magic itself is the stuff of stories. No one would ever believe it was real, not when it’s this far-fetched.’

Perhaps he ought to accept that their worlds were simply too different.

Either way, he had no time to ponder these questions now. There was noise in the courtyard below their quarters and that in itself was so unusual in Rivendell that he put the book down and made his way to the balcony to see what was happening.

‘It’s the twentieth of October,’ Beth said, realising something that Thráin, who’d made not enough progress into the book to know what was going to happen on what day, did not yet know. ‘Frodo and his companions are supposed to arrive.’

He frowned, trying to recall what he may have seen when he leafed through the book. ‘Strider is with them, is he not?’ About time, too. He’d been waiting for him for well over two months now and he knew he was more than outstaying his welcome in this place. The elves did not tell him to be gone in so many words, but neither were the subtle about their desire to see the back of him.

‘He should be,’ she said.

A look over the railing taught him that Beth had the right of it. Elves were bustling about the place, but Strider was there too. As the only man among elves he was difficult to miss. And if that simple fact would not have drawn his attention, the three hobbits hovering behind him might have done.

‘At last.’ He’d had it with waiting. Even if he could not immediately depart from this place, there would be something to occupy him. ‘You may come with me and make his acquaintance or you can stay here and wrestle some more with your letter.’ He was still trying to get the measure of his cousin and her answer would reveal something of her character. Neither choice was necessarily bad, but if he was going to spend months on the road with her, it would serve him well to know her better.

She appeared torn between her two options, between her duty to her family or her commitment to her new task. Then, after a few moments, she sighed. ‘Oh, I might as well. I’m not getting anywhere with this.’

And she followed him out and down into the courtyard, where she remained standing at the bottom of the stairs, a little daunted perhaps by the presence of so many elves. Thráin on the other hand had no reservations about weaving his way through the many elves to reach his friend.

‘Thráin.’ Strider had seen him coming. ‘Well met, my friend.’ He looked tired and dirty from the road.

So Thráin decided to cut him some slack. ‘Well met, indeed. And a pleasure to meet you, Masters Hobbit,’ he added, turning to the hobbits. Though hardly anyone believed it, he had been raised with manners. That he chose to use them sparingly was his own business. ‘Thráin, son of Thorin, at your service.’

They introduced themselves in turn. Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took. From the way they stared at him it was beyond obvious that they had never met a dwarf before in their lives. He tried not to mind. There were worse things than plain curiosity and there were parts of the world where he would be met with enmity instead.

‘Are you one of Mr Bilbo’s dwarves?’ asked Peregrin. His companion poked him in the side, quite possibly to remind him that this was rude. By the way Peregrin ignored this, Thráin could tell this was hardly the first time such a thing had happened.

The term “Mr Bilbo’s dwarves” made him smile, though. Naturally a hobbit would look on it that way. Among his own folk Bilbo was still referred to as “their burglar,” so turnabout was only fair play. ‘That would have been my father,’ he corrected, smile widening when he pictured how much offence his adad would have taken at the term. ‘I take it you are well-acquainted with the tale.’

They nodded. The one who had introduced himself as Samwise still looked a bit doubtful and overawed at the same time.

‘Allow me to make another introduction,’ he said, gesturing to Beth to come over. She did. ‘This is my cousin, Beth Andrews. She is currently a guest here in Rivendell with her son Harry.’

Pleasantries were exchanged between the hobbits and Beth, while Strider sent Thráin a questioning look.

‘Later,’ he promised. There was much they needed to discuss.

‘Beg pardon, Mr Dwarf, sir,’ said Samwise when the greetings were done. ‘Do you know where they’ve taken Mr Frodo?’ There was genuine worry in his eyes.

‘I take it he sustained an injury?’ Durin’s beard, he should have made more haste in reading Beth’s book. He might have known what was going on if he had. But the hobbit nodded, so he had guessed correctly. ‘They would have taken him to Lord Elrond,’ he replied. ‘Maybe Beth will be as kind as to show you where he can be found.’

Much as she kept claiming she was “nothing like Kate,” the death glare she sent his way was all too familiar. _I wonder what she would have made of this_ , Thráin wondered. He wished he knew what decisions she would have made. For the first time he thought he understood a little of the longing Thoren felt, the desperate need for guidance of someone who knew what they were doing. It had come to him when the weight of responsibility landed on his shoulders and made a home there.

Nevertheless, she complied and she took her leave, all three hobbits trailing after her.

‘Walk with me,’ Strider invited.

‘Gladly.’ For as much as he had to tell, he feared Strider might have more.

‘I was surprised to see you here,’ his Ranger friend confessed when he steered them towards the gardens.

‘I did not think to come here when we parted in the spring,’ Thráin retorted. ‘But much has happened since last we spoke.’

Strider nodded. ‘Indeed it has. What brought you here?’

He kept his answer brief and to the point, telling of the envoy of Sauron that had come to the gates of the Mountain, the questions he had asked and the threats that had been made. ‘My brother told him in no uncertain terms that he was uninterested in what Sauron had to offer,’ he concluded. ‘In doing so, he may he have called Sauron’s wrath over himself.’

‘You fear for him?’ Strider asked.

‘Not for his resolve to stay true to that decision,’ he said. ‘Or his determination to bring an alliance about. But the Lord of Mordor will not let such defiance go unanswered. You and I both know this.’ He halted and took a good look at his friend’s face. ‘But it’s the questions that worry you, yes?’

‘I don’t deny it.’

‘Never fear on that account. Sauron won’t learn the location of Bilbo or the Ring from the dwarves.’ It rubbed him the wrong way that after their long years of friendship, Strider would doubt this. He ought to know better by now.

He had alarmed Strider now. ‘What do you know of the Ring?’ His voice was sharp and surprisingly suspicious.

Despite his own anger at that, he managed to keep his voice even and answer the question truthfully. ‘I know that while he was with my parents on the quest to reclaim Erebor from Smaug, Bilbo Baggins found a magical ring that could turn him invisible under the Misty Mountains. Then the envoy from Mordor came and asked questions about it, appeared almost desperate to reclaim it or at the very least learn the hobbit’s whereabouts. It was no difficult leap to make to assume that Bilbo’s little ring was not a mere trinket. I set out for Rivendell soon after in order to warn him of the Enemy’s interest in him.’

Strider considered this in silence.

Thráin gave him a while to do this, then carried on: ‘Beth confirmed my suspicions when we met.’

Now he had Strider’s undivided attention. ‘You said she is your cousin?’ Thráin could tell he was trying to work out the connection, but found himself unequal to the task.

‘Her grandfather was my mother’s brother, as I understand it,’ he explained. ‘There is much you do not know about my family.’

‘Explain it now, if you will,’ Strider requested.

Of all the folk in Rivendell at present, Strider was undoubtedly the one he trusted the most, apart from his own folk, and so he did. He explained his mother, where she came from, the book she had possessed, her hints at knowing more of the future beyond her own lifetime.

‘As it happens, another book exists,’ he said. ‘One that details the events of our time. And Gandalf has taken it upon himself to remove my kinswoman and her son from their own world in order to have access to this information. He intends for her to fulfil the position once held by my mother.’

Strider took it with more calm than Thráin had expected. ‘I see now why you hold such a grudge against him. For your mother’s sake.’

‘The grudge was there before I knew of her origins,’ Thráin replied honestly. ‘I did not know the full truth until after she had passed away. It matters not. Whatever comes, I will not leave Beth to fend for herself.’ He cast a look at his friend. ‘No more than that you will allow yourself to leave the hobbits before you know they are safe. They are under your protection, are they not?’

‘They have come under Lord Elrond’s when we entered this valley,’ Strider answered tactfully.

Thráin snorted. ‘You ought to take up diplomacy as a calling. You’ve a gift for it.’

Strider did not seem to think this amusing.

Thráin chalked it up to a long and exhausting journey and took no offence. ‘Go bathe, my friend, eat and find some rest. The troubles of the world can wait some hours more. And what can be done is out of our hands.’

Now Strider did smile. ‘And you have been blessed with wisdom, I think. I shall do as you tell me. But we must speak again soon.’

‘We shall,’ he promised.

Until then, he had a book to read.

* * *

 

 

‘It has been two days.’

Thoren was stating the obvious, but Duria decided not to comment on it. As it was, she felt his frustration as her own. An assassin had broken into Elvaethor’s room and would have killed him had it not been for Thoren and Jack’s timely interference. The intended murder weapon had been left behind when the assailant had run. Ever since, Elvaethor had been closely guarded, a guard hand-picked by her brothers. They were leaving nothing to chance anymore. Well, that at least was the wise thing to do. Elvaethor himself had barely been awake since then, still recovering. Whatever it was he intended to tell them, he had not been conscious enough to do so, thanks in no small part to Aunt Thora’s remedies.

Both her brothers looked rather the worse for wear. Jack’s arm, already hurt from his expedition into the Easterling camp – and really, why had she been cursed with kin that was so very eager to throw themselves into danger without a care for the consequences? – was currently heavily bandaged and forced into a sling. He had some minor scratches besides. The mark this fight had left on Thoren was all across his face, a wound that resembled their mother’s old scar so closely it was uncanny.

‘Aye, and elves are quick on their feet and have a gift for hiding.’ Dwalin was unfazed by Thoren’s words. ‘Might be he climbed out a window and is long gone.’

‘I broke his wrist.’ Instant dismissal. ‘I felt his bones give way.’

‘No elf has reported to a healer.’ The meeting had been ongoing for almost the quarter of an hour, but this was the first time Elvaethor’s sister had spoken. She had arrived the night before and had to be told of what had befallen her brother. And because Thoren trusted her, even though he barely knew her, he had shared his suspicions about the attacker with her. Duria privately debated the wisdom of this.

‘Could he have kept it a secret?’ Jack asked.

Tauriel shook her head. ‘No. We are all living close together. Keeping a secret of such a nature would be impossible. Whoever he may be, I do not believe one of our own would make an attempt on my brother’s life.’

Duria never quite knew what to make of her. While Elvaethor was an elf in appearance only, his sister was elvish from her toes to the tips of her ears. She had the fluent movements and the strange way of speaking unique to her kind. As with other elves, she appeared to be above the world, never really part of it. Then again, shutting oneself up in a forest for long enough would do that to a body.

‘The attacker was too tall to be a dwarf,’ Jack pointed out. ‘And too strong to be a man. My brother and I both felt his blows. And he wielded a weapon forged by your people.’

It was difficult to tell, but Tauriel seemed ruffled at last. ‘I could pick up a sword forged by a dwarf, but it would not make me one.’

It was the sensible sort of argument Duria had already tried on her brothers, and it had not made a difference then, either. There were strong men about as well, men who had more strength in their limbs than the others of their kind. There had been persistent rumours that in the East and far away in the South, some men were trained to be both strong and quick, in order to deceive and spy and kill on command. With the Easterlings intent on war, such a one might have snuck into the Mountain in much the same way Jack had managed to find his way into an Enemy camp. With so many people going in and out in preparation for the coming war, it would be impossible to keep track of everyone. She had said this and had been almost laughed out of the room.

Honestly, was it considered a crime to be sensible these days?

Speaking of. ‘We could argue about this until the world is remade, but it wouldn’t bring us any closer to finding who did this.’ Cathy was fed up with it by now. ‘The fellow was wearing a mask, so he could have been anyone: elf or man. Probably not a dwarf, true enough. Now what are we actually going to do that’s going to help us find him?’

‘We have not been idle, lass,’ said Lufur.

‘No, but sending the guard out in numbers doesn’t seem to work.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Now, don’t laugh at me, but do any of you remember _amad_ ’s stories?’

‘She had many,’ Duria remarked. Tales of wonder and adventure, all of them. Of course, now she knew that all these wondrous stories had come over with her from her own world, where apparently they knew many tales of magic, despite having none. She’d had a gift for words and storytelling, only the first of which she had passed on to Duria. Telling bedtime stories was a task that fell to Narvi in her family. ‘Which one do you mean?’

‘She always had these stories about these figures that she called detectives, who would investigate murders and the like.’ Cathy had the kind of excited sparkle in her eyes that betrayed she was rather warming up to her own ideas. ‘They’d be more subtle about their investigations. Well, more subtle than sending the guard out in force. I don’t mean there’s anything wrong with that,’ she hastened to say when both Dwalin and Lufur pulled faces as though they were about to protest.

Jack groaned. ‘Maker be good, those are stories!’

Cathy raised an eyebrow at them. ‘I reckon that’s what _amad_ thought of this world too when she first came here. And she was rather proven wrong.’

Jack would have argued if it hadn’t been for Thoren. ‘I know what you intend, Cathy, and the answer is no.’

She glared at him. ‘It could work.’

‘It could not and you could get killed.’ Fortunately about this at least he decided to be reasonable.

‘You can’t go up against a murderer alone, Cathy,’ Duria said, adding more reason to the mix. ‘Even if you could uncover him, you are no match for him in a fight.’

‘Well, it is a good thing I did not intend to get into a fight then.’ She was full-grown, this little sister of hers, but she could be so very headstrong. There had been the trip to Mirkwood some months ago and now there was this. The restlessness had gotten its hooks into her and Duria did not like it.

‘It does not matter either way,’ Thoren said. ‘If you will not listen to me because I am your brother, you will obey me because I am your king. The traitor will be uncovered, but not by your effort. I will not risk your life in that manner.’

Even Cathy knew better than to argue when he pulled rank like that. It was one less thing to worry about. So afterwards she retreated towards the library. Her brothers had the training ground or the workshops to retreat to when they craved peace of mind, Duria had the library. They were dwarves after all; they worked to get rid of their frustration, they worked to be at peace and they worked to honour their Maker. And Duria’s work had always been of the scholarly kind. Still, it felt odd to be there now that so many other matters ought to take precedence, but Duria had never been a warrior. She hadn’t the skill or the understanding in matters of warfare. At least on this subject she had to acknowledge that others knew more than she did.

Even so, the change was unavoidable here as well; there was an elf working at her favourite desk.

‘Here to work on your ongoing research or something else?’ Gelin asked when he saw her coming in. He was a fellow scholar and helped out as a librarian when he was doing nothing else. Duria could not recall ever even seeing him outside the library itself, which had led to the rumour that he had a bed hidden away behind one of the shelves. Thus far she had seen nothing to disprove it.

‘I’ve researched enough orcs to last me a lifetime,’ she replied. But for the sake of her people she would get right back to it. Her usual research, an investigation into the life of Durin the Fourth, would have to wait until this war was fought and won. ‘But I shall resume it all the same.’

Gelin shook his head at her. ‘Will it help, though?’ he asked. ‘All that matters in the end is how many of them can be killed and books won’t make a dent in their armour, all told.’

Duria did not care to hear this. ‘The books may contain the information that might give us the upper hand. If so, it is my duty to find it.’ She stared him down. ‘Have you held back the tomes I need, as I asked?’

‘No need to be rude about it, Duria.’ He handed the tomes over. ‘I know it’s frustrating when you have nothing practical to contribute, but…’

‘Thank you,’ she said loudly, drowning out whatever it was he was about to say. ‘I will resume my work now. Thank you for your assistance.’ She all but snatched the thick volumes out of his hands and marched over to the desk next to the one she always used. It wasn’t as pleasant to work at, but until the elf removed himself, it would have to do.

It was all codswallop anyway. Duria had no desire to fight. She had learned when she was young; her father and mother had insisted that all them learned how to defend themselves when the need arose, but dwarrowdams did not as a rule go to war. Duria was no exception. She did not want to be in a war. She would assist in the way she had always assisted: by offering reason and advice when there was a need. It had always been enough. And yet deep down she knew that advice did not win wars.

‘Good day, Mistress Duria,’ the elf said when she sat down. She must have given the wrong impression if he thought she was in a mood to be friendly.

‘Good day,’ she said, because just because it was said of dwarves that they were rude and unmannered, that did not mean it was true. ‘You seem to have me at a disadvantage. I do not know your name.’ Could be that she met him before; there were so many elves in Erebor these days and they were hard to tell apart.

‘Cilmion, my lady.’ He inclined his head. ‘We have not been introduced.’

Good, that meant she had not accidentally given offence. ‘Pleasure,’ she said. It wasn’t and she wished he would keep his mouth shut, for she had work to do. ‘Now, as we are in a library where talk is not encouraged, we ought to both get on with our work.’ That was as polite as she could manage under the given circumstances.

He nodded. ‘Very well.’

Unexpectedly, he bothered her no further, which was just as well. It left her room to get on with her own task. Many of these tomes however contained little to no actual useful information. There were long, scholarly debates on the origins of orcs and whether or not they had been blessed with souls. Those were interesting matters academically speaking, but there was little practical use in warfare. No book mentioned secret weaknesses.

 _I don’t know what I was thinking_ , she thought. _Orcs don’t have a weak spot in their armour like a dragon might have._ And she had never been the hopeless dreamer of the family. She out of all five of them should have known better.

The conversation she’d had with Fíli some months past sprang to mind again. _You build your life on the knowledge contained in the old tomes, but that is knowledge of the past._ That’s what he had told her. And yet she had been foolish, or ambitious, enough to think that he was wrong and she was right. And she had been so determined that she would prove her point. Pride, indeed.

Her pride was all but gone now. She pushed a weighty volume away from her. It went into the question of whether orcs deserved to be given mercy or not. Could they redeem themselves or were they so evil at heart that no such redemption would ever be possible? It was a moot point, she thought. She’d never heard of an orc capable of even the smallest kindness, so no one in their right mind would keep one alive as a prisoner to test the theory. You’re not going to keep something alive if the undoubted end result is that it will kill you as soon as it has a chance. That was just common sense. And she had no time nor patience for the kind of writing that would normally interest her so much. There was too much at stake to waste time on idle speculation.

‘Research is not going so well?’

She had been so caught up in her work that she had not heard or seen her sister arrive. ‘Cathy,’ she acknowledged. ‘If you’ve come to plead your case with me, you’d be wasting your breath.’

Her sister perched on the side of the desk, a practise of which she knew Duria did not approve. ‘Then it’s good I haven’t come here for that purpose,’ she said flippantly. ‘Thoren’s looking for you as a matter of urgency.’

She did not like the sound of that. ‘What’s wrong?’

Cathy shook her head. ‘Not wrong,’ she corrected. ‘Simply urgent. Ah, good evening, Master Elf.’ She could be subtle if she wanted to be. That she wasn’t so now only confirmed she intended to be blunt.

The elf took it surprisingly well. ‘And a good evening to you as well, my lady. Cilmion, at your service.’ For her he actually stood up and made a bow.

‘Cathy, daughter of Thorin, at yours,’ she said. ‘I hope I haven’t interrupted your studies.’ She must know full well that she had.

Fortunately elves were generally quite courteous. It would also help that Cathy did not much look like a dwarf. ‘Not in the least,’ he assured her. ‘The hour grows late. I will hand in my books and go off in search of dinner. My ladies, if you would excuse me.’ He inclined his head, picked up his books and left them.

Cathy stared after him with a small frown on her forehead.

‘Something the matter?’ Duria asked.

‘I thought… No, it does not matter.’ It would have been a momentous occasion indeed if she ever willingly confided in Duria. She was good enough when they needed rescuing, but Maker forbid they should take her into their confidence when it didn’t look like the world was falling apart around them. ‘We have more important matters to address.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Elvaethor has woken. And Thoren says he has some troubling news that we must hear.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: the Fall.  
> As always, thank you for reading. Reviews would be most welcome.


	17. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little fun fact: ages ago reviewer Vanafindiel asked me (about The Journal, on ff) if I was aiming for a million for word count. I can’t exactly remember my reply to that, but I’m fairly sure it was a no. But, as it happens, I remembered the comment a while ago and when I summed up the combined word count for the whole Written Word series (The Journal, Duly Noted and the Book; in my Word documents, so without author’s notes) I came pretty close.  
> And this week the mark’s actually been reached. As of now, the published chapters of this series has a grand total of 1 003 729 words. I never thought it would get this big, so I thought I’d share this with you. And… my compliments to you if you’ve actually read all of those words!  
> Anyway, enough of my rambling. Enjoy the chapter!

_The arrival of the wizard and the hobbits brought about a change in Rivendell. All of a sudden it became obvious that the task I had been brought to Middle Earth to perform was not a long time away in the distant future. It was imminent. I would have to play a part. And I would be lying shamelessly if I said that it did not frighten me. It did._

_It took that month for me to realise that I had been very quick to judge Kate, at least on some matters. I still thought she should have gone back home at the end of her quest, as Gandalf had intended, I still very much believed that she had made some serious errors of judgement on the quest she had accompanied. But I did find that all things considered, she may have been right in being afraid to advise on such a quest. She knew when she began her task that there were people there who her book had fated to die. Yet she still let herself grow close to them. It baffled me. I did not know how she could have risked her heart like that._

_It’s only now, when all is said and done, and the war fought and won, that I realise that feelings are tricky things and they cannot always be dictated by reason._

_Because, if anything, that was very much my weakness, my reason. I took pride in that, in being analytical, in favouring cold, hard facts over unpredictable emotions. The real world, however, does not work like that. The real world throws you impossible coincidences, chance meetings and maybe, if you’re very fortunate, a little luck once in a while._

_On the other side of the Misty Mountains, Kate’s daughter was very much going to need it…_

 

Halin was still asleep. He should be; it was far too early to be awake already. The rooms they had were situated deep under the Mountain, where natural light did not enter. Cathy liked it like that. She’d been woken up with the sun every single day as a girl, because her parents had a love of daylight they had not passed down to her, despite her mannish looks. But she had a very acute sense of time. Outside the Mountain, the world was still cloaked in darkness and most souls were doing what she ought to be doing: sleeping.

Cathy’s head was too full with thoughts to rest and so she made an extensive study of the ceiling instead, recalling bits and pieces of conversation.

‘Elvaethor is sure the Easterlings said that one of the Firstborn has gone over to their side.’ Thoren’s voice, clear as a bell in her memory.

‘Surely not.’ Duria’s denial had been immediate. ‘Never before has that happened.’

‘Clearly there is a first for everything.’ Thoren again.

‘We were right about the attacker, then.’ Jack’s contribution to the discussion had been almost smug. ‘And their reason for attacking.’ When both Duria and Tauriel had frowned in confusion, he had elaborated: ‘Whoever this fellow was, he intended to silence Elvaethor. Without his information, or the attack…’

‘Which would not have taken place at all if Elvaethor hadn’t learned of this elvish traitor,’ Thoren interjected.

Jack nodded. ‘Without that we wouldn’t have known there was a traitor at all, never mind an elf. Who would suspect one? Men have gone over to the wrong side, from time to time. You’d expect it from them. But not from elves.’ The last sentence had been spoken very reluctantly, as was expected; Jack never had much love for anything that wasn’t dwarvish. Admitting that elves were not all bad was a hurdle that took some effort overcoming.

In the end, this sound reasoning had been accepted by all those present, even Duria. No one even dared to suggest that Elvaethor had been mistaken. It would have been foolish to do so; everyone who knew him would know he’d never speak such a grave accusation unless he was wholly convinced it was true. He had that kind of reputation.

Unfortunately not even he knew the identity of this traitor. The Easterlings had not been particularly careful with their words around him – why would they, since they intended to kill him? – but neither had they been overly chatty and Elvaethor himself had admitted to being unconscious for hours at a time during his captivity.

That was how she had come to be awake at such an hour. She did suspect something, but after Thoren’s clear dismissal of her idea a few days ago, she knew better than to come to him with nothing but vague suspicions. As her brother, he might believe her, but he was also a king. And he would need solid evidence if he were to act. If he didn’t, this whole alliance could fall apart before the war had even truly begun. Doubtlessly the Enemy would like that, and Cathy was in no mood to be obliging.

She’d have to ignore Thoren’s commands and have a go at finding out what was going on herself. After that, she would gladly endure whatever lecture he had for her. At least by that time the traitor should have been dealt with.

She lay awake until dawn, planning.

Breakfast was a quick affair. Halin had early business on the other side of the Mountain and to that end tried to do two things at a time: eating and reading over a mountain of contracts that he would, Cathy knew, still be reading whilst he hurried down the hallways, dodging passers-by as he went. She debated telling him what she was up to, but eventually decided against it. He was in a hurry and there would be time to bring him up to speed at dinner. Her investigation was unlikely to yield much in just the span of a single day.

True to expectations, Halin pressed a kiss to her mouth before he dashed out of the door, nose still stuck in his contracts. Cathy made her way in the opposite direction.

Elvaethor was awake when she poked her head around the door.

‘It must be a good morning if my little lady has time to visit with me.’ Some of his old self was returning. In truth, his enthusiasm might have been more convincing if he hadn’t been wincing when he tried – and failed – to sit up.

She went along with it. ‘I wouldn’t know; haven’t been by a window yet,’ she replied airily. ‘But I’ll take your authority for it being a fine morning.’

He laughed at that, and winced again. According to Aunt Thora he’d broken several ribs, and even though elves healed quicker than dwarves and men, it still took time. And Elvaethor had been very badly hurt.

‘Have you had breakfast yet?’ she asked. Elvaethor’s skin had always been pale and the elf himself on the skinny side, but it was worse now than it used to be. Like as not the Easterlings hadn’t bothered to feed him well, if at all. If she had been stronger, she would have dearly loved to pick up a blade and run them through to avenge him.

‘I have indeed,’ the elf said. ‘Your aunt was thoughtful enough to see to it personally.’

‘Well, Aunt Thora likes you,’ Cathy pointed out. ‘We all do. So see to it that you get better.’ It was disconcerting to see him in a bed, unable to even sit up without help.

He smiled. ‘If it is your command, I will do my very best,’ he promised.

‘I can’t ask for more, can I?’ Well, she was about to ask for more and she hoped she could be subtle enough to do so without him working out what she was up to. Cathy would not put it past him to get up from his bed and find one of her kin to report her, even though he could scarce lift a finger without hurting. And the worst would be that he’d do so not to thwart her, but to protect her.

_It’s my turn to be a protector now, my friend._

She sighed and shook her head. ‘I still can’t believe that an elf would have gone over to the Enemy,’ she said. ‘Has that ever happened before?’

Elvaethor shook his head. ‘Not to my knowledge. Not in all my years.’

That made her wonder. ‘How old are you, my friend? I think it’s older than you’ve let on.’ He hinted at it sometimes, but he would never say more. She suspected that he either did not care to think that much about his age or just did not want them to know. But even Elvaethor slipped up now and then and somebody who claimed he had been alive “when the world was young” must have been born in at least the First Age.

He smiled enigmatically. ‘My memory lets me down, little lady. I’ve forgotten.’

 _I don’t believe that for even a second._ But if for some reason he did not want her to know, she wouldn’t press him for information. She had not come here to learn his age. As her mother sometimes used to say: she had bigger fish to fry.

‘Either way, if even you can’t remember it, it’s safe to say it’s never happened before now.’ She needed to steer this conversation back to where she wanted it to go. ‘So why would it happen now? What could move an elf to join forces with Sauron?’ As far as dwarves were concerned, there was no appeal in such a course of action. Oh, Sauron’s messenger had offered rings and Khazad-dûm, but neither were his to give.

The answer this time took a long time waiting. ‘I do not know, Cathy,’ the reply came at last. There was sorrow in his voice. ‘I did not believe my people capable of such betrayal. Even though I have broken with them, it saddens my heart.’

She was filled with anger once more. ‘It should sadden their hearts, whoever they are,’ she said forcefully. ‘You never asked for it. Let them bear the weight of their betrayal, but never you.’

Elvaethor, she felt, had already experienced too much sadness and grief. To make him bear the weight of what another elf did was just senseless. And he certainly should not feel sad for somebody who had taken it into their head to end his life.

Elvaethor actually managed a smile. ‘Ah, there is that fabled wisdom of the dwarves,’ he remarked.

Cathy only frowned. ‘That’s not wisdom. It’s common sense.’

‘I find that my own people greatly lack it in these past centuries.’ Despite her efforts, he still looked and sounded sad.

‘We’re your people now, remember?’ And she could not be more pleased that he had made that choice. Thranduil and much of his followers had made him feel unwelcome for longer than Cathy had been alive. It was about time Elvaethor decided to pack up and leave for a place where he was sure to be welcomed with open arms. ‘And I’ve always said elves could do with a measure of common sense. Come to think of it, maybe it’s because they lack it so much that one of them has decided to join forces with Sauron.’

Elvaethor smiled wryly. ‘Maybe so. But do not underestimate his power, Cathy. He was called the Deceiver for a reason. There was a time when he could persuade folk to see things his way by simply talking to them. The elves fell for it before. Perhaps one has fallen into that trap once again.’

It didn’t sit well with her. ‘Even if that is the case, he should know that killing another elf is wrong. Even if Sauron can talk a body into believing him, there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed.’

‘As I said, do not underestimate his power.’ It was clear that he at least did not make that mistake. ‘Or the determination of those who work in his service.’

‘No chance of that.’ Which was why she was never going to go anywhere near her suspect. She was just going to find some evidence.

Elvaethor appeared reassured. ‘Good.’

It was becoming clear that she wasn’t going to learn anything useful from him. She had known that it was a possibility, but she’d tried all the same. ‘I should let you get some rest,’ she said, getting up. ‘The healers would have my head if I tired you out too much.’ She saw that he was about to utter an objection and was quick to add: ‘And you need rest, no matter how much you insist that you don’t.’

She left him with that and made her way to the elvish lodgings. If she was going to pick up a trace of her quarry, it was most likely to happen there. And she was convinced that she knew who it was. Or at the very least she needed to get a closer look to be entirely sure.

When she had come for Duria in the library a few days past, she had been in the company of an elf who had introduced himself as Cilmion, a dark-haired fellow with a fair enough face – for an elf – and a stack of books on the desk in front of him. Since Cathy had sensitive news to share with Duria she had been less than subtle in her attempts to get him out of the way. He had gone and when he did, he had grabbed his books with his left hand, holding them against his chest as he walked away. It would have made infinitely more sense if he had used his right hand instead of opting for such an odd way of holding the books. The right hand in question had hung by his side uselessly. She’d found it strange then and she had not thought it any different since. And what with Thoren being absolutely convinced that he had broken the attacker’s right wrist, this warranted further investigation.

Luck, it appeared, was not on her side this day. She found the elvish quarters without trouble, but upon entering them was immediately waylaid by the Aerandir fellow who had ambushed her on the day of Jack’s return.

‘My lady Cathy, what a pleasant surprise,’ he greeted.

And then it got worse, because he was not alone. Duria had been there already. ‘Cathy, a surprise indeed.’ Her sister would never take her to task in front of an audience, especially not an elvish one, but the tone spoke loud enough for her. Cathy wasn’t meant to be here. Duria was in charge of making sure their allies had everything they needed. And Duria had enough experience with her siblings being up to no good to recognise it when she happened upon it.

‘I found myself without an occupation this morning and decided to see how our friends were doing,’ she improvised. After all, it was plausible enough.

‘And it is a delight to welcome you here,’ Aerandir said. It was the meaningless elvish flattery that Cathy never had much patience for, but anything that saved her from her sister’s lectures was very welcome indeed.

‘If we are to fight a common enemy, it makes sense that we should try to be allies as well as friends.’ Maybe she was laying it on a bit thick, but the elf himself never mentioned it. ‘Isn’t that right, Duria?’

By the look of things Duria was quickly cottoning on to what had led Cathy to this place and she was far from giving it her seal of approval. Her glare would have sufficed to kill a warg stone-dead. ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact, it is good that I see you now. Master Aerandir, do excuse us. My sister and I have urgent business to discuss.’

Durin’s beard, had she really outwitted Elvaethor only to get caught at this stage of the game by her nosy sister? Oh, she was never going to hear the end of this.

Duria held her tightly by the arm as she all but marched her out of the elvish lodgings to a more or less abandoned corridor a little ways away. Only there did she let go.

‘What in Durin’s name are you doing, Cathy?’ There were days when Cathy honestly wondered if Duria wasn’t an actual blood relative of Uncle Dori, because in this current scenario, she was feeling a lot like Uncle Nori all of a sudden.

Staying true to that, she adopted some of his airy manners. ‘Visiting a friend,’ she replied. ‘I made Aerandir’s acquaintance some days ago.’

Duria clearly didn’t believe it. ‘You’ve never visited any elf save Elvaethor unless you could help it,’ she pointed out reasonably. Would that she wasn’t so very reasonable all of the time. Then Cathy might have gotten away with it.

‘Time to break the habit of a lifetime,’ she countered. Oh, she was so absolutely fed up with being treated like a child. Yes, she was of a frailer build than her siblings and yes, she was the youngest. But if she was old enough to be married – and she had been married for nearly thirteen years now – then she was old enough to make her own decisions. And it would be absolutely marvellous if that idea would take root in the minds of her nearest and dearest. ‘It is in fact none of your business how I spend my days, Duria.’ Any chance she may have had of looking into Cilmion’s doings was of course well and truly gone now. _Thank you, Duria._

‘It is my business if you disregard a direct order of Thoren’s outright.’ Of course she would know. Duria always knew. ‘He told you not to risk yourself like that.’

‘I wasn’t risking anything.’ She had to remind herself that shouting would do her no favours. ‘I was investigating. That’s hardly the same thing.’

‘It is when you get caught!’ If Cathy had closed her eyes she could have believed it was Dori standing there.

‘Well, I’m not going to get anything done now, am I?’ She was getting well and truly riled. ‘Not now you’ve decided to get involved.’

And before the hour was out, Duria would have told Thoren and he would send a guard after her. Worse, he would tell Halin before she had gotten a chance to explain things. And Halin would not be angry – he was actually one of the few who understood her need to be allowed to make decisions on her own – but he would be disappointed that she hadn’t made him privy to her plans. What a mess.

‘What were you planning anyway?’ Duria was warming up to her own theme. Then again, that never took much effort. ‘Just walk in and start asking questions?’

‘No, that would be Jack’s sort of approach.’ Cathy liked to think she could boast more brain-power than her twin. ‘I’ve had one in my sights. I was going to observe him to see if I was right and report to Thoren when I was. Of course, that’s not going to happen now, is it?’

Folk who didn’t know her would claim there was nothing of her mother’s infamous temper in her. They would only be half right. Usually she was a very even-tempered kind of lass. She never really had much use for fits of temper, since they usually did not help her cause. But Duria really brought out the worst in her. They’d never gotten on as children and Duria’s poor attempts at mothering, even now that they were both grown and married, had only made it worse.

For a moment though her sister appeared lost for words. ‘How long have you been at this?’ she demanded quickly enough.

‘I had barely started!’ Duria’s voice had been rising and by now Cathy’s started to match it. ‘Before you…’ _decided to ruin it all_. She only barely managed to bite those words back. They wouldn’t help and they would only infuriate Duria even more. She could be sensible, if she so chose. ‘Intervened,’ she concluded instead. ‘Listen, I know I’m onto something. The very least you can do is hear me out.’ Getting Duria as an ally was as likely to happen as it was for an orc to dress up in a gown and attend a funeral, but it was her best chance either way.

Duria crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Be quick about it.’

Cathy was. She quickly explained what she’d noticed about Cilmion, the way he favoured his left arm over his right even when it made no sense. ‘It’s not much to go on, but Thoren is certain that he broke the assassin’s right wrist and Tauriel is swearing up and down that none of the elves are injured, so he is definitely hiding it. It seemed worth the trouble to at least get a closer look.’ And to be honest, that was as far as her plans had gone. But Duria needn’t know that.

Maker only knew what her sister’s response would have been had they not been interrupted by the subject of their discussion.

‘It is unwise to be out so far from the road.’

Cathy swivelled around. Her heart sank. ‘Cilmion,’ she acknowledged.

For a mere moment she toyed with the idea of denying what they had been talking about, but she discarded it almost immediately. He had the sharp hearing unique to his kind; he would have heard. And then, a more worrying thought, he must have followed them here. This area was deserted. The damage done by the dragon Smaug in this part of the Mountain had been extensive and even now, almost eighty years after its death, not all the harm he had done had been repaired. The structure was unstable in places, walls and floors alike crumbling. And all of a sudden Cathy really did not like the idea of the gaping ravine next to the road.

‘Lady Cathy,’ he nodded. ‘Your chosen path is unwise. Surely you know that.’ He stepped forward.

‘Is it?’ she asked. ‘I would have called your chosen path unwise, were it not that calling it such would be an understatement.’

He took another step. The closer he came, the easier it was to see that there was most certainly something wrong with his right arm. Maybe he managed to hide it from his own people, but he was not even pretending in front of them. _I was right, Maker be good._

‘Unwise? To choose the winning side?’ Cilmion scoffed. ‘There is only death that awaits those who refuse to accept the inevitable.’ He half-smiled. ‘But for those wise enough to join forces with him, there will be mercy.’ He did not define who he meant by him, but Cathy could hazard a fairly educated guess.

She doubted that. ‘Of the kind you were to bestow on Elvaethor, perhaps. But you would be a fool to think that Sauron the Deceiver would ever keep his word.’ This was the kind of behaviour she would expect to find among men. Elves, for all their failings, had never fallen so low. The treason cut deeper than she had expected. ‘You are a fool if you think otherwise.’

This time Cilmion laughed. It was a thoroughly unpleasant kind of sound. ‘You think I am the only one who has joined with him. Oh, but how wrong you would be. There are more among the Wise who have seen the wisdom of my course. They are already working against whatever pathetic resistance the world thinks it can put up.’

He would not speak of this unless he was certain she would not live to tell the tale. Fear chilled her to the bone.

But anger proved to be stronger. ‘At least there is honour in resistance. There is none in your cowardice.’ If she had stood but a little higher, she would have spat in his face.

Finally Duria roused herself from her shocked state to contribute. ‘There is honour in surrendering now,’ she said. ‘There is still a chance for redemption.’

Cathy knew the offer would not be taken before the last word had even left her sister’s mouth. This one had fallen too deep.

‘I am not fool enough to believe that.’ He shook his head. ‘And you were a fool for offering.’

‘Yet you are fool enough to fall for Sauron’s lies.’ She clenched her hands into fists to mask the fact that she could not stop them from shaking. At this point she was not even sure if it was with rage or fear. ‘Which one of us is the idiot now?’

He ignored that. Instead he studied both of them intensively. ‘I take no joy in doing this,’ he suddenly informed them. ‘Especially not when one of you is with child.’ He shook his head again, as though he was shaking away the last remnants of a conscience. ‘But then, maybe this is kinder. Better for the child to die now than to be killed when this dark pit of a Mountain is overrun.’

She would have wondered what in Durin’s name he was on about if she’d had more time to think. There was none. Cilmion charged and he was fast, despite his injury. Elves were known for their quick movements, even though dwarves had the upper hand in strength. But neither Cathy nor Duria were full dwarves and even though she fought against him with everything she had, it wasn’t long before Cathy could feel nothing but air underneath her feet.

And then she fell.

* * *

 

 

The elves knew how to throw a feast, that was for certain, Beth concluded when, on the day Frodo was finally allowed out of bed, Rivendell hosted one. To celebrate the fact that a hobbit had recovered from surviving a magical wound, Lord Elrond decreed there would be a feast and one and all were very much invited. This invitation was also extended to the dwarves, who were less enthusiastic about it than Beth was. Then again, that was hardly a surprise.

‘Mum, it’s so pretty.’ Harry was tugging on the skirt of her borrowed dress. They had entered the hall barely ten seconds ago and already he was taking everything in with eager eyes.

Beth herself was mainly very much overwhelmed. Until today she had mainly been shut away with the dwarves. She had liked it that way, because the transition between worlds was hard to take and much to adjust to. If she was going to handle this well, she’d best take it in small doses.

This was no small dose. This was as otherworldly as it could possibly get. There were so many elves assembled here, all of them beautiful and graceful. There were some who had this air of power around them. It was nothing the eye could see, but it was something that could be tasted on the tip of a tongue or sensed in the tingling of a fingertip. Gandalf was present as well, seated next to Lord Elrond on a dais with another elf Beth hadn’t met before. She instinctively felt that this was no place for mere mortals.

‘Bit much, Beth?’ Bofur was quick to notice her discomfort.

Glad she didn’t have to bring the subject up herself, she nodded. ‘A bit, yes.’ She searched for the right words to describe what this hall felt like, but came up empty. ‘I feel like I do not belong here.’ And if that was really the best she could come up with, she was really getting rusty.

Fortunately Bofur seemed to know what she was getting at. ‘It’s very elvish,’ he said and really, maybe that was just the best way to describe it. ‘But we’ve been invited, so we’ve every right to be here.’ He grinned at her. ‘With any luck, they’ve improved the food since the last time we were here.’ He pondered that for a moment. ‘And the entertainment was somewhat lacking as well, if my memory serves me well. But that we can actually do something about.’

Beth dreaded to think what he had in mind.

There weren’t only elves in the hall. Of course there were the dwarves and there was Thráin’s friend, whom he knew as Strider, but Beth knew was in fact called Aragorn. She’d actually laughed when Thráin had read the truth about his friend in a book – ‘And he tells me _my_ family keeps secrets,’ he’d grumbled – and her newfound cousin had looked as out of sorts as he was ever likely to get. And then there were the five hobbits. And every single one of them felt more important than Beth.

 _What am I doing here?_ These people, they were the important people, the ones who made decisions that changed the course of history. Beth was not even of this world. And maybe her cousin was royalty, but she was most certainly not.

And Thráin actually looked the part tonight. Usually it was hard to see in the way he dressed that he was a prince. He preferred simple, practical clothing, the bare minimum of accessories and a few simple braids to keep his hair out of his face. That style very much fitted his character. He wasn’t much for things that served no purpose.

But for this he had made the effort. Apparently he’d brought some fancier clothes and a couple more rings and the like. Alfur had commented that he looked like his father, uncannily like his father, and he thought that it was a good thing. Truth be told, he certainly brushed up nicely.

But all it did for her was drive the point home that, however much he claimed otherwise, he moved in different circles than she did. He was a prince, son of a king and now brother to the next, and he kept the company of others of his social class.

‘If you want to slip away after the feast, I’d be pleased to create a distraction for you,’ he offered when he came to stand next to her. ‘Preferably one that allows me to accompany you from the room.’

Then again, Thráin had never made secret of his dislike of elves and their ways. Maybe he was more out of place here than she’d thought.

‘We will be well-fed tonight,’ she commented. It was the kind of neutral remark that could not get anyone into trouble, least of all her.

He nodded. ‘Aye, there’s a truth. Looks like there’s even meat on the menu.’ He caught Beth’s uncomprehending look and added: ‘There was not when my parents came to Rivendell. Could be that it was just the elves pulling a prank. Wouldn’t put it past them.’

It seemed unlikely. ‘They are above such childish mischief, I think.’

Thráin snorted. ‘Are they indeed?’

He did not elaborate and Beth did not ask him to. She allowed him to lead Harry and her into the hall and to a seat near the hobbits, well, two of them at least. Bilbo she had met – he would have rather not been here, he told her, but Thráin would not hear of him saying no, so here he was – but Frodo’s acquaintance she had yet to make.

It turned out that Harry made it first. He stood next to Frodo, who was about the same height he was, made a bow like he had seen the dwarves do and introduced himself: ‘Harry Andrews, at your service.’ After that the manners went right out of the window again. ‘And who are you? You’re as tall as I am.’ For all that he had been around dwarves for the better part of a month, this still surprised him.

Glóin, who had followed behind him and could not contain his fathering tendencies even when it concerned someone else’s child, reprimanded him: ‘Manners, lad. That’s no way to behave.’

It was more of a surprise that Harry actually listened. He’d grown to like the dwarves, _really_ like the dwarves. And for all that she didn’t like Thráin telling her what to do with her own son, she couldn’t deny that Harry had more of a connection with these dwarves than he had with elves. He seemed to find them somewhat intimidating. Maybe going with them was not as bad an idea as she had first thought.

‘Sorry,’ he told Frodo.

The hobbit took it with grace and after the initial introductions were out of the way, conversation flowed smoothly. Truth be told, Beth preferred to listen. These people all knew each other or of each other and therefore they had a lot of stories to exchange. She had nothing to contribute. Of course, Harry didn’t know them either, but he told a hundred stories and asked a thousand questions and he was easily accepted into their little circle.

_I don’t belong here._

She had known that before. In fact, she had felt almost proud of herself for remaining so detached. It was better that way. It would only be more painful to say goodbye in the end if she emerged herself in this the way Harry did. But he was a child. He did not know any better. But she knew already that when the time came to go back home, the parting would be very hard on him.

The feast went on for what felt like an eternity. There was good food and the people attending were in high spirits. She was the sole exception as far as she could tell. It’d be different if she took part in the discussions around the table. Part of her wanted to. The sensible part of her knew better. She was not Kate. Those mistakes she made would never be Beth’s.

Eventually it did end. It was getting late and at least she’d have a good excuse to retire.

On the other hand she should have realised her evening plans would be jeopardised by her own son. ‘Mum, they’re going to sing and tell stories!’ He was already unleashing the adorable puppy-dog look on her. ‘Can we please go? Please?’

Alfur, the little traitor, actually backed him up. ‘They won’t do it again while we’re here,’ he pointed out. Of all the dwarves, he seemed the one who tolerated elves the most.

‘And it’s quite the happening, as I hear tell. The lad might enjoy it.’

She looked to Thráin for help, but he had disappeared. _Bugger it all._

‘Just for a while then,’ she gave in. ‘And when I tell you it’s bedtime, you will listen and come with me.’

Harry considered these terms, realised they were the best he was going to get and nodded. ‘But we can go?’

‘Yes, we can go.’ There was no real harm in it. She’d read the book by now, so she knew that the rest of the evening would consist of story-telling and singing. It’d be a little like a concert, she imagined.

It wasn’t, she found out soon enough, not by a long way. There was music and singing, true enough, but the way she felt sitting there was nowhere near the excited vibes one felt at a concert. This was not a rush that swept you off your feet. Or rather, she did feel like she was swept off her feet, but more because she felt like she had wandered into a fantastical, magical dream.

The strange thing was that she had read about this when she had begun to do her research into the _Lord of the Rings_. It wasn’t a terribly important event, but it was the first event that had been described in the book that she was now actually witnessing, the first one she was a part of.

The book had described what it was like to be in the Hall of Fire, as the place was called. The whole paragraph that had told of what it was like to be there had felt surreal and maybe a little far-fetched. She now found that there were no words in the English language that could possibly do justice to what went on around her. If she had not believed in magic already, this would have been the time and the place where she changed her mind.

Harry was absolutely spellbound. He was sat next to her, listening wide-eyed to all that went on around him. Normally she had trouble getting him to sit still, but tonight Beth suspected she would find it hard to get him to move.

‘Quite something,’ Bofur commented after a while. Only Alfur and he had come with her to this hall. The other dwarves had sensed a moment to escape and had made good use of the opportunity.

Beth frowned. ‘I thought you did not like elves.’

‘Not generally, no.’ He shrugged. ‘But I’m a dwarf. We know how to admire something beautiful. And this music’s not near as bad as the funeral march they played at our coming eighty years past.’ He grinned widely. ‘We had to create our own entertainment.’

Beth wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

So instead of asking that, she put another question to him: ‘What’s the reason elves and dwarves don’t get on anyway?’ The book was vague about it. Had Peter been here, with all his knowledge of Middle Earth, he would have been able to give her an answer. As it was, Beth had never bothered to listen to any of his ravings about all things Tolkien.

‘Oh, lass, that’s a long story.’ Bofur smiled. ‘And Rivendell is hardly the place to tell such tales. Some of the enmity dates back to the First Age.’

‘That’s a long time to bear a grudge.’ Didn’t people have better things to do with their time around here?

‘And some of it is more recent,’ Bofur pointed out. ‘But that’s not the fault of these elves here.’

Instinctively she knew he was talking about the events that Kate had seen, had written about in her letters. ‘Your problems are more with Thranduil, yes?’

‘You’re getting the hang of this, Beth.’ He gave her a pat on the shoulder, taking care with the amount of strength he used this time. ‘We’ll make an advisor of you yet.’

‘An interpreter,’ she corrected. She liked that term better and it created some more distance between Kate and her.

Bofur did not seem to mind either way. He turned his attention back to the music and Beth followed his example. For a while they listened in companionable silence and she found herself swept along again. It was otherworldly beautiful. Any other description she would give would fall utterly short.

Harry was entranced as well, but he was only six years old and the night was getting on. True to expectations, she could feel him sagging against her before too much time had passed. He was completely exhausted, poor thing.

‘I’m going to put him in bed,’ she informed Bofur. And then, when it appeared he would get up, she added: ‘No, I’ll be fine. Stay here if you want.’

‘If you’re sure?’ he asked.

‘Did Thráin ask you to look after me?’ she enquired suspiciously.

‘He might have done,’ Bofur replied. It wasn’t quite an admission. ‘And I might have made the offer before he could make the request.’

Beth wasn’t sure what to make of that. Knowing what she knew of Bofur, he would have made the offer out of kindness rather than a misplaced notion that she could not look after herself. It was more kindness than she knew what to do with. It woke something that felt very much like guilt.

‘I’m fine on my own,’ she insisted. She stood up and lifted Harry into her arms. He was getting a little big and a little heavy for that, but their rooms were not that far away. She would manage. ‘Good night.’

‘Night, Beth.’

Hardly anyone saw their leaving. The elves were too caught up in their own songs to notice much else and the hobbits had retired some time ago. Beth recalled seeing them leave. And where Gandalf had gone off to was anyone’s guess.

Once she was outside, her head cleared. The music could still be heard drifting outside through the doors, but the magic that had held her in place was broken. It was a strange place, that Hall of Fire, and now that she was out of it, she had no desire to walk back in again. It felt like the place where one could lose oneself.

She made her way down a flight of stairs carefully. She had to cross a courtyard and then go up another flight of stairs and walk down a few corridors before she reached her own room. It wasn’t far, but Harry was getting heavy and so far he was showing no signs of waking.

She was almost across the courtyard when a voice stopped her. ‘Begging your pardon, my lady, do you know the way in this place?’

She swivelled around, startled. She’d been so focused on getting back to her room that she had failed to notice the man and the horse standing at the edge of the courtyard. And he was a man, not an elf. That she could see the difference between the two in the half-dark was testimony to her being here for far too long. The voice had given it away first. It was nothing like the musical kind of voice that typified the elves. It was a little more real, a little more grounded. And this man was muscled, strong-built. For all their physical strength, elves looked frailer.

He must have been on the road a good long while, if the state of his clothes was any indication. And he clearly expected trouble too. Beth noticed a sword on his hip and a shield strapped to the horse.

‘A little,’ she answered when she had recovered.

He stepped forward. ‘Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said dismissively. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going either. Where do you need to go?’

‘You are no elf.’ He sounded like he had only just realised. Well, maybe it was strange.

‘I’m not,’ she confirmed. ‘I am Beth, this is my son Harry. We are guests here. Like you are, I suppose.’

He nodded. ‘My name is Boromir.’ Now that she had introduced herself, he clearly felt compelled to do the same. ‘I have been told to look for the Lord Elrond by the guards at the edge of the valley, but do not know where to find him.’

It was only when he had given his name that Beth knew she should have known who he was without being told. She’d read the book cover to cover twice now and the bit about what was going on around this time more than that. There was only one man known to arrive in Rivendell on this date at this time of night.

_I’m meeting a dead man._

The thought popped up out of the blue, but now that she had thought it, there was no unthinking it. She’d read about Boromir, had read about his death. And she had been able to do that quite detached. After all, she didn’t know him. He was just a character. Except he was not, because here he was, in the flesh.

_It’s too real._

And she had suddenly no clue anymore how to talk to him. How had Kate done this? How had she been able to look Fíli, Kíli and Thorin in the eye like nothing at all was the matter? And quite frankly, it was bewildering that she had befriended them, had even managed to fall in love with one of them. She knew what was in store for them. And yet she had clearly let herself grow close to them without letting on what she knew. It was the first time she actually felt a reluctant kind of respect for the woman, because Beth had no idea what to do.

All of a sudden she really wanted to run. Had it not been for Harry in her arms, she might have done that anyway, not caring if it was rude.

 _Talk to him_ , she told herself. _Or he’ll know something is wrong._

‘Lord Elrond is still in the Hall of Fire, I think.’ She concluded with relief that her voice was steady, even if she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. ‘It’s just up the stairs, first left, second right and then immediately left again.’

Boromir inclined his head. ‘Thank you, Lady Beth.’

He was courteous if nothing else. She had a feeling he might even be pleasant company if she got to know him better. And she didn’t want to. She had to stay detached and this meeting alone was hard enough. If she had to think about having to spend months on the road with him, she might just throw up here and now. How would one even go about it? She couldn’t straight up tell him he was going to die, could she?

She settled for a quick ‘you’re welcome.’ If she had been any other, she might have fled after that, but Beth hadn’t tried to instil manners in Harry only to completely disregard them herself. ‘Good night, Boromir.’ She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to give him some sort of title, but he had only given her his name to work with and if she gave any indication of knowing more about him, that might look suspicious, magical even.

_I wonder if witch-hunts are a thing in Middle Earth._

He gave a goodnight wish in return and then they went their separate ways.

It wasn’t until Harry was in bed that Beth realised her hands were still shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be an all Erebor chapter next week, since I suspect you will want to know what happened to Cathy and Duria.  
> As always, thank you for reading! Reviews would be most welcome.  
> Until next Sunday!


	18. Private Investigations

_Meeting Boromir proved one thing to me: staying detached was going to be very hard, if not completely impossible. I had found out that just talking to someone that I knew was going to die, was difficult. Even though of course I knew better, I felt as though maybe he would be able to read it in my face the moment we made eye contact. It was a ludicrous notion. How could he possibly know? Still, if there is one thing I have learned this past year it is that there are many things in this world – and quite possibly my own as well – that are nowhere even near reasonable._

_The reason why I thought I would be able to stay detached was Gandalf. I had read about him, knew that he was going to die, but I also knew that he would come back to life. Death was not permanent for him. Meeting him had therefore not been much of a problem and I’d had too much to discuss with him then to pay much attention to his fate._   
_It was very different with Boromir. When he would die, he would stay dead. His death would have consequences. All of that made it very real and very frightening._

_And that was a new thing in my life: fear. I would not go as far as to call myself fearless, but the emotion had never played much of a role in my life. Mary used to say it was because I surrounded myself with a shield of self-confidence and reason and that kept the more delicate emotions at bay. Maybe she was right. After all, in Middle Earth I did not have much to be confident in and this world did not care for all my reason. So, instead of being well-grounded in facts, I was set adrift in a sea of uncertainties. It was not a feeling I liked, something I had in common with a cousin I had never met before in my life…_

 

When she woke, it was dark. That was not an uncommon occurrence under the Mountain, as there were no windows below surface levels. But even then there was usually light of some kind. There were torches and fires and candles. This complete darkness was as rare to Duria as weddings to orcs.

For a little while she was too disorientated to make much sense of the world. There was no reason why she should be here, lying on bare rock. She was aching in places she didn’t know existed with no clue how it had come to be that way.

That alone was reason enough for panic, but she fought for control and won. Panicking was not her style. That was something her siblings did when they were so out of their depth that they turned to her for help. It was her duty not to fall apart.

And so she did what she did best and turned to reason for aid. The easiest way to get an answer would be to track back what she’d been doing, the last thing she could remember. She’d gotten up, dressed, then dressed her boys. There had been breakfast after that, which Narvi had made while she was busy. Then she had taken her sons to her mother-in-law to spend the day there while she checked in with the elves. So far, so good. She remembered doing all of that. She also recalled talking to one of the elves and then… Cathy had come in.

Her memory slammed back into place with the force of a rock avalanche; the way she’d called Cathy to the carpet, the interruption by Cilmion, the struggle, the fall…

Cathy.

_Maker, no._

This time panic did set in. Duria had seen her fall, had seen her pushed over the edge. At that point reason had abandoned her entirely. She’d never known she had such fury in her, such an overwhelming rage. It had taken her completely by surprise. Apparently the same was true for Cilmion, who had been completely taken aback by the very angry dwarrowdam barrelling into him. Duria was fairly sure she’d done quite a bit of damage before he eventually got the better of her and she too was pushed over.

There was no memory from after that, no telling how long she had been unconscious either. There was only silence and darkness. Cilmion would be long gone by now. The only consolation was that she’d so thoroughly rearranged his delicate elvish face that not even a blind dwarf could overlook it. Somebody should notice. Somebody should start asking the right kind of questions.

The way Cathy had done.

All of a sudden she felt cold, chilled to the bone. Cathy wasn’t as strongly built as Duria. Out of all five of them, Cathy had always been the frailest, the most mannish. And mannish skulls and bones weren’t made to withstand being slammed into rocks at great speed.

Her heartbeat sped up.

It was too quiet. There was no sound of breathing except her own.

_Mahal, please no._

‘Cathy!’ Her voice bounced off the walls, sending her own frantic call back to her a dozen times over. _I’ll never shout at her again, I’ll never treat her like a child, I’ll never tell her what to do. Please just let her be alive._ ‘Cathy!’

There was only silence and the thundering sound of her own heartbeat.

She felt around her, but all she could feel was rock. Normally it would have calmed her. Dwarves had been woken under the mountains in their very beginning and they had never ceased loving the mountains from which they came. To be under the earth was reassuring, to have stone under their hands was calming.

But Duria was neither reassured nor calm. It wasn’t stone she wanted to feel, it was her sister. No, more than anything she wanted to feel her sister’s warm, breathing body. She wanted to hear her voice, even if it was to tell her to back off, because she was fine. What she wouldn’t give to hear Cathy complain about her mothering habits right now! _I’ll never be angry with her again in my life if you just let her live. Please, just let her live._

Duria had never thought of herself as the praying type. Yes, she believed in her Maker. It would be foolish not to. But to some folk it meant more than to others and Duria had never really bothered with prayer. Truth be told, she’d never had to pray for anything. Mahal had already bestowed so many blessings on her people that it felt like insolence to ask for more. But she asked for this one. She would beg for this one until there was no more air in her lungs.

‘Cathy!’ she cried again. ‘Can you hear me?’

And maybe Mahal did answer prayers. There was no other explanation for the miracle that happened after.

‘Durin’s beard, Duria, no need to shout. I’m not deaf.’

Her heart missed a beat. She was forever telling folk that was not a thing that happened – they were never very receptive to that – but if asked about it later, she would swear up and down that was exactly what happened.

‘Cathy?’ She was almost afraid her ears had deceived her.

‘Over here.’ Given this dark, that was singularly unhelpful. ‘Durin’s beard, it’s dark here. Where are you?’

This time she was able to pinpoint where her sister’s voice came from. She reached out and bumped into something that was quite possibly the side of Cathy’s head.

‘Take my eye out while you’re at it,’ she complained. ‘So, I take it you went over the edge as well. Cilmion?’

‘Escaped,’ Duria reported. ‘But he will need a good explanation for the injuries he sustained.’ She cast her mind back to the struggle on the ledge. ‘I was not gentle.’ _I thought he killed you._ She didn’t actually say the words. Truth be told, she wouldn’t know how. Chances were they would not be well-received. None of her siblings had ever given any indication that they cared much for her or her concerns for them.

‘Good.’ There was a grim satisfaction in Cathy’s voice that she had never heard there before. ‘And I think I managed to kick him in his family jewels.’

Where in the world had she learned that? ‘What?’

It was so dark she couldn’t see, but she knew Cathy well enough to be able to visualise the shrug. ‘I might have done the world a favour. You don’t want such a black-hearted traitor to be able to reproduce.’

‘Elves are not keen on that as a race,’ Duria supplied, almost absent-mindedly. ‘The last child born to them must have reached majority some centuries back.’ That she knew of anyway. There were some areas where elves could give the dwarves a run for their money when it came to secrecy.

‘Well, just in case he got any ideas.’ She groaned. ‘My head feels like the Mountain fell on it.’

Normally Duria would have demanded that Cathy let her take a look at it, but that would serve no purpose now. ‘You know your own name?’ she asked. She had a vague recollection of Aunt Thora telling her that was what one needed to ask folk who’d hit their heads hard, to make sure their brains were still functioning properly.

‘I’m sixty, not six, Duria.’ The irritation in her voice was answer enough, as was the fact that she knew her own age, which had been the next question on the list she’d have asked. She reckoned there was no need now. ‘My head just hurts. And I’m sure I’ll be bruised all over. It’s probably a good thing we can’t see each other now.’

There might be some truth in that.

Speaking of truth. ‘Do you think he was telling the truth?’ she asked. ‘Cilmion, I mean. He said that one of us is with child.’

Cathy sounded distinctly annoyed. ‘Maker be good, Duria. You’ve done it twice before. I’m sure you’ll be able to recognise the signs without elvish help. You’re certainly no better off asking me.’ There was a biting snappiness there that Duria didn’t understand. It almost sounded hostile.

‘He might have been talking about you,’ she pointed out. ‘He did not say which one of us.’

And she didn’t think it was her. It could be, but then it would be really early. Could elves tell so soon? She wouldn’t know. Elvaethor had always had the grace to let her tell him the news in her own time. Of course he’d always known before she did, on some level she knew that, but he’d always pretended to be surprised. And she had liked him better for it.

‘Not likely.’ The brusque tone of voice was more something she had come to expect from Jack than from Cathy.

There was something Cathy was not telling her. That should not be news. Her siblings only seldom confided in her when there was no one forcing them to. But she had a feeling this was important somehow. And technically she hadn’t promised Mahal to never ask questions again. She was perfectly justified trying to get to the bottom of this.

‘Why not?’ she demanded. ‘You’re married and Halin and you never make it a secret you enjoy each other’s company… that way.’ That she had resigned herself to her little sister’s marriage didn’t mean she wanted to imagine what she got up to in the bedroom.

It was silent for a long time.

‘Cathy?’ she tried when it lasted so long she began to worry.

‘I don’t think we can.’ Cathy sounded very young and very vulnerable. ‘We’ve been married for thirteen years now and we’ve been trying for just as long. It’s never happened. I don’t think it’s possible.’ In the way she breathed in Duria could hear she was near tears. ‘It’s probably me. I’m only half a dwarf and I’ve always taken after _amad_. Maybe it’s just not meant to work.’

That was nonsense. ‘Codswallop,’ she said forcefully. ‘I’m half a dwarf and I have two healthy sons. And the fact that the two of us exist at all should tell you that it’s possible. _Amad_ was not even half a dwarf. She had five of us.’ It just took longer for some folk. Granted, thirteen years was still quite a long time.

What did come as a surprise was that Cathy wanted a child of her own. She was hardly the motherly type. There were times when Duria was convinced she was still half a child herself, someone who needed mothering.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Cathy said brusquely. ‘When we get out of here we can both get checked out by the healers and if one of us is pregnant, I’ll imagine they’ll be able to tell.’ Duria could hear her moving. ‘We need to get out first.’

And this was not the time for a heart-to-heart. Cathy was right about that at the very least. They needed to get out of here.

‘Problem is, I can barely tell which way is up,’ Cathy said. ‘It’s so bloody dark in here there could be an army of orcs and I’d never know. You’ve always been better at seeing in the dark than I am. Can you see anything?’

Duria frowned, not that her sister would be able to tell. ‘What do you mean, I can see better in the dark?’

The huff that followed that question was very annoyed. ‘Maker be good, Duria, aren’t you supposed to be the clever one?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Dwarves can see better in the dark than men. That’s not a secret now, is it?’

‘You’re half a dwarf,’ Duria reminded her.

‘So are you, strictly speaking, but we both know there is not much mannish about you.’ Cathy for once was being very sensible. ‘And I’ve always taken after _amad_. My eyes are not as good with darkness as yours. Besides, Halin and I tested it once. We know there’s a big difference.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Duria said. She didn’t know how else to respond.

‘Why would you be?’

‘It must make life more difficult for you.’

‘For Durin’s sake, you’re forgetting who you’re talking to.’ Cathy really was vexed. ‘I’m not Jack. He’s the one who’s turned moping about mannishness into a form of art. Maker knows how Flói puts up with it. But that’s not me.’

That was true enough, she supposed. But that did not make it fair. ‘There is a reason Jack has such difficulties, Cathy.’  
‘Spare me the lecture,’ Cathy snapped. ‘There are no good reasons for that kind of behaviour, Duria, no rational ones anyway. Nobody has minded what Jack looks like for years now. It’s in his head. Like…’ She stopped abruptly, but Duria was clever enough to make the leap herself.

_Like a madness._

No one in their senses ever spoke of it like that, but it was common knowledge that Duria’s family was much more susceptible to illnesses of the mind than most other folk. Duria’s great-grandfather Thrór had succumbed to gold lust, her grandfather Thráin had lost his mind to grief and Duria knew full well that grief had claimed her own father as well in the end. And she only vaguely remembered her cousin Fíli being sad for long years before Duria’s history tutor Síf had brought the smile back to his face.

The inclination for sadness ran in their blood and unless they kept a tight rein on it, it could very easily run away with them. She’d also seen the potential in Thoren, who kept clinging to the memory of their parents. Especially with the way things were now, this tendency deeply worried Duria. There wasn’t so much of it in Thráin and Cathy, thank the Maker, and she rather thought she escaped it as well.

‘Never mind,’ said Cathy before Duria found the time to respond. ‘None of that matters now. We need to get out of here and tell Thoren what happened.’

Well, at least one of them had her priorities straight. Duria didn’t like it that she wasn’t that person for once.

‘You’re right,’ she said.

‘So, can you actually see anything, or are you just as blind in this place as I am?’ Cathy’s patience must have just about run out.

‘I cannot see anything,’ Duria confessed. Even now that her eyes had been given time to get used to it there was nothing but blackness all around her. She dreaded to think how far down they had fallen and considered it a minor – or not so minor – miracle that they were both still alive and in one piece. ‘We will have to guide ourselves by touch, find a solid wall and climb back up.’

There was no reply from Cathy.

‘Did you hear me?’ she asked for good measure.

‘Yes, I did.’ The answer was so long in coming that Duria almost feared she had passed out. ‘Are you still sitting down?’

‘Why?’ she demanded. Most of the time when one of her siblings asked her if she was seated or perhaps felt an inclination to do so, it was followed by the announcement of something exceedingly unpleasant.

It was no different today. ‘I can’t move,’ Cathy confessed. ‘We must have triggered some sort of avalanche when we fell. My leg is stuck under it.’

She did not like the sound of this. ‘Let me see if I can lift it.’

It took a fair bit of hit and miss on her part. Eventually Cathy got fed up with her failing, managed to catch her hand and guided it to the area where she needed to be. And Duria didn’t like it any better when she had a chance to explore. The rocks – more than one – were stacked on Cathy’s right leg from about the knee down. What was infinitely worse was that when she pulled her hand away, it was sticky. Putting a finger on her tongue confirmed it was blood.

_Mahal, no._

‘Are you hurt?’ she asked, cursing herself for a fool the moment she did so. Of course she was. What else could she be?

‘I can handle it.’ That in itself was answer enough.

Duria didn’t dignify that with an answer. Her mind already raced ahead. ‘I can lift the rocks, but I fear you won’t be able to walk. Or climb.’ She was already praying hard again. _Please don’t let her bones be shattered. Please let me be strong enough._ After a lifetime of not having bothered with prayer, she must surely overwhelm Mahal today.

Silence again. Then: ‘I know. So you go. And then you can send help.’

Everything in Duria rebelled against the thought of leaving her here on her own, even though she knew it was the sensible thing to do. No, it was the only thing to do. It would serve no purpose to remain here with Cathy. There was no light to see by and even if there had been, she wouldn’t know how to treat such an injury. She needed to fetch help.

Cathy backed that thought up. ‘It’s the sensible thing to do, Duria. Of all people I thought I wouldn’t have to explain that one to you!’ Now that she knew what to listen for she heard the fear underlying the bravado. ‘Lift that thrice-cursed rock and get climbing or so help me Mahal, I will go myself.’

Time had taught her that she would and her own health be damned. Cathy may not look like a dwarf, but she had the heart of one and the stubbornness to match. Testing her resolve would be unwise, for Cathy would strive to prove herself.

‘I will go,’ she said. Really, she knew what she had to do, so where did that reluctance come from? She had never been the kind of person to let herself be led by her emotions. She couldn’t afford to break that habit today.

So she did as she was told, made sure Cathy was as comfortable as she could be under the given circumstances and, after a little trouble finding a wall, slowly started to make her way up.

* * *

 

The knock on the door was unexpected. Folk did not knock on Jack’s door as a rule, especially not after nightfall. The only exception to aforementioned rule was Flói.

This could not be Flói; he was already making himself at home on Jack’s couch.

‘Did you invite some more folk to join us?’ he asked his cousin.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Flói replied. ‘Though I’m not objecting to some more company.’

The most likely scenario was that Duria had come round to given him another lecture on reckless behaviour under the guise of checking up on him. It was just about the last thing he would like to happen. Really, all he had was that cut across the forehead and a broken arm, both of which would heal in their own time, though hopefully before the Enemy armies showed up.

‘Probably my sister then,’ he said.

Flói did not ask which sister. At least Cathy never felt the need to tell him what he could and could not do.

He was wrong in his assumption. When he opened the door it was not Duria standing there, but her husband.

‘Evening, Narvi.’ He tried – and failed – to keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘What brings you here this time of night?’ Narvi and Duria were both the kind of dwarves to rise early and retire earlier. He’d assumed they’d have been asleep already.

‘May we come in?’

The plural made Jack look closer and realise that not only Narvi was here, he’d somehow gotten stuck with Cathy’s husband Halin as well. And Jack was never in the kind of mood to suffer his presence.

Politeness dictated that he made an exception. ‘Come in.’ He stepped aside and let them pass. ‘Why are you here?’ He directed his query at Halin rather than Narvi. This would not be a social call. Halin should know better than to expect hospitality from him.

‘Cathy and Duria are missing.’ Halin didn’t beat around the bush. It was hard to read anything from his face, but Jack could almost believe him worried. ‘Neither have been seen since this morning. Narvi and I have been all over the Mountain in search of them. We’d hoped that perhaps they were with you.’

Flói saved him the trouble of having to answer. ‘Haven’t seen hide nor hair of them all day. Are you sure they didn’t go to Dale with Thoren for that meeting?’

‘Certain,’ said Narvi. ‘Duria had some practical matters to see to with the elves in the morning and then was supposed to be in the library until dinner. Only she never showed.’

Halin clearly saw this as an invitation to report Cathy’s schedule for the day. ‘Cathy was going for a visit with Elvaethor in the morning. After that, I do not know what she intended. I’m afraid I was rather in a hurry this morning.’ Jack was almost certain he heard the guilt in his voice.

Then again, to be completely fair to his brother-in-law, Cathy had always done what she wanted without much care for what others – mainly Duria – thought of it. She was not nearly as restless as Thoren and Thráin, but she had certainly come up with her fair share of unconventional notions.

Especially these last few months.

Or in the last couple of days.

_Really, Cathy?_

Flói had followed his line of thought probably by reading his face. ‘You don’t think she actually did it, do you?’ He read Jack’s face some more and then said: ‘You do think that.’

Halin and Narvi appeared confused.

‘What do you think she did?’ Halin demanded. He hadn’t been at the meeting where Cathy had voiced her outlandish ideas and from the looks of it, she hadn’t seen fit to share them with her husband, something that only confirmed Jack’s own suspicions.

‘ _Amad_ used to tell stories of folk who investigated crimes,’ he explained. ‘Cathy thought it’d be a brilliant idea to see if they worked here as well.’

Halin did not need more to understand. ‘She went after the traitor on her own. That’d be why she visited with Elvaethor this morning.’

To get information out of him that could help her in her inquiries. Halin clearly understood the way his wife’s mind worked.

Narvi cottoned on as well. ‘And he’s an elf, isn’t he? Our traitor?’

Jack nodded. Despite Duria’s objections that he could not know this for sure, there was no doubt in Jack’s mind. And since he had been the only one to fight the assassin out of the two of them, he rather thought he had more ground for his accusations.

‘Aye,’ he said.

‘Duria went to meet with the elves.’

Maker be good. What trouble had they gotten themselves into? Really, that kind of thing was more Thráin’s area of expertise. It had never been either of his sisters’.

And he had to say he did not like having to team up with his brothers-in-law to locate his wayward sisters, but if the situation was as dire as he feared, he might need them before the night was out. Not that he minded Narvi so much – he was one of the most easy-going and friendly souls a body could ever meet – but he would have paid good coin to keep away from Halin.

That was probably why Flói suggested that they split up once they reached the elvish quarters. Jack went in with Narvi, while Flói stuck with Halin. Under the given circumstances they felt it was wiser if none of them undertook anything on their own.

‘Master Jack, what brings you to our humble lodgings this late?’ They were barely through the door when they were hailed by an elf Jack did not recognise. Then again, with the way he stood out, there would be no mistaking him.

‘I don’t believe we have been introduced,’ he replied icily.

‘My apologies,’ the elf said smoothly. ‘Aerandir, at your service.’

‘You know who I am,’ Jack replied. No point in introductions there. ‘This is my companion Narvi, son of Bombur. We’ve a question to ask of you, if you have a moment to spare.’

‘Please ask it, if you will.’ The elf seemed courteous enough, but Jack had never trusted them much and he trusted them even less now. And he wouldn’t return to his previous state of less distrust until such time that the traitor had been located.

‘My sisters have not been seen since this morning.’ He did not particularly like to share this information, but there would be none forthcoming from the elf if he didn’t ask the question first. ‘We were wondering if you had perhaps seen either of them after breakfast time.’ He hoped he made it sound casual enough, but subtlety had never been one of his strengths and he knew it well.

‘Luck favours you,’ the elf replied, which was news to Jack; luck had never favoured him at all as far as he was aware. ‘For I have seen both of them.’

Narvi was unable to keep quiet any longer. ‘When?’ he asked.

‘This morning,’ Aerandir replied promptly. ‘Mistress Duria came in to make sure we were well provided for and was soon after joined by Lady Cathy. They departed not long after.’

‘They left together?’ Jack checked.

The elf nodded. ‘I believe Mistress Duria had some urgent business to discuss with Lady Cathy. I do not know which way they headed after they took their leave of me. It saddens me I cannot be more useful.’ He appeared to mean it.

Jack had a strong idea of what might have happened directly after, but did not speak of it. Duria must have figured out what Cathy was up to. That would warrant a lecture of at least half an hour, but she wouldn’t have taken Cathy to task in front of the elves. She would have chosen somewhere private.

But what could possibly have happened after? If the investigations had come to nought – and Jack did not believe for a moment that Cathy had persuaded Duria to help out against Thoren’s explicit orders – why had neither of them been seen since?

Unless of course this elf was lying. That was the trouble with traitors. Aerandir had the right height to be their would-be assassin, but the same was true of just about half of the elves in this Mountain. It was too little to go on.

‘If there is anything I may do, to be of assistance, please do not hesitate to ask.’ Aerandir was quick to volunteer his services. Too quick? Jack didn’t know. He lacked the intuition to play these games. At least in that respect, he was very much a dwarf.

‘If they have not been found by morning, I may take you up on that offer,’ he replied. If his sisters had not been found by morning – by the time Thoren was expected back from Dale – the whole Mountain would be torn apart in search for them. And the elves would be extremely offended if they were left out.

‘This was a waste of time,’ Halin declared once they were safely outside the elvish quarters again. He appeared to be getting more restless with the minute.

For once, Jack couldn’t help but agree. All Aerandir had done was confirm what they had already thought. There was no real new information. The elves Halin and Flói had interviewed had only reported that both ladies had been in, had spoken to Aerandir and had left shortly after. If anything, they had not encountered the traitor there. They couldn’t have. Could they?

‘Where would they have gone?’ Flói was asking the right questions. Folk were usually very much mistaken in him, as in they always thought he was simple. Jack knew better. ‘Knowing your sister, I’d say there was an impending lecture, so where would she have gone to give it?’

‘Somewhere private,’ Narvi responded.

‘Not too close to the elves, nor too far away.’ Jack knew the way Duria worked. And she must have been more than a little agitated to find that Cathy had completely ignored a direct order. ‘She wouldn’t have the patience for it.’

It occurred to him then that the four of them were very much doing what Cathy had intended to do herself. They were asking questions in a more or less discreet – because they were all still dwarves who never had much patience for such delicacies – manner, they hadn’t called out the guard and they were trying to reconstruct what had happened. If only Cathy were here to have a good laugh over that one. Maker knew, Jack might have joined in if he had not been so worried.

‘There aren’t many such places hereabouts.’ Halin shook his head. ‘They are all occupied now.’ By elves mainly, but some men from Dale and Esgaroth had also taken up residence for the time being.

There was a reason why they were all housed here. This area of Erebor had been very badly damaged during Smaug’s reign of terror and when the Mountain had been retaken and restored, this was the part that took longest to rebuild. It had not been safe for habitation until about a year ago. And even now there were parts that were not entirely safe. Duria would not have gone near those areas, would she? It wouldn’t have been the responsible thing to do.

He voiced that thought, but received the same reply from Narvi. ‘She is much cleverer than that. She wouldn’t have taken the risk.’

They all quickly fell quiet when an elf rounded the corner, like a bunch of dwarflings caught in the act of making mischief.

‘Good evening,’ the elf said.

‘And to you, Master Elf,’ Flói replied. ‘Durin’s beard, what happened to your face?’

Jack had been avoiding looking at the elf, almost afraid that his expression might have given him away, but now that Flói made his observation, he did look. And it turned out that his cousin was right; the elf did look like he had lost a fight with an angry bull.

‘I’m afraid that one of your folk did not have much of a liking for me,’ he said. ‘Do not worry yourself, Master Dwarf, for I repaid the offending dwarf in kind.’

Jack could have groaned. This was about the last thing they needed: their people picking fights on the eve of war. Jack would be the last person to say he liked elves, but he understood the need for a united front in the face of a greater evil. His own people sabotaging that hard-won alliance was not going to do them any favours now, especially not when it would be hard enough keeping the elves on side once the traitor had been found and revealed.

‘I apologise on my people’s behalf.’ Those were the words that were expected of him. ‘That was ill done. If you can point me in the right direction, I will have a quick word with him.’ And didn’t he just hate that, having to favour an elf over one of his own? But the elves were here as guests and allies. Some things were just expected of him.

The elf waved it off. ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘The dwarf received as many blows as I did. I am willing to let the matter lie.’

Well, that was maybe one thing that was going his way. ‘That is very… generous of you,’ he commented.

‘In such dark times we cannot afford to let such things influence us,’ the elf said.

‘You should see a healer anyway,’ Flói said. ‘Might be that the light is a bit funny in here, but I’d say it looks like your wrist came off badly in that fight.’ He was keeping his tone light, but Jack heard the underlying wariness when he added: ‘Your _right_ wrist.’

They all knew what that meant.

Halin was done asking questions. He didn’t wait for any kind of response, but charged forward and slammed the elf into the wall. Narvi did not waste any time and grabbed the right arm for closer inspection, ignoring the elf’s indignant demands to know what he was doing. The elf directed his angry questions at Jack, who ignored them.

‘Broken,’ Narvi reported grimly, holding up the offending broken wrist as evidence ready for Jack’s scrutiny.

He took a look and confirmed that it was indeed broken. It could be a coincidence. There might be some truth to the fellow’s statements that he had gotten into a fight with a dwarf and had sustained the injury there, but Jack had never been one for believing in coincidences, especially not of that kind. If he was wrong, he would have to apologise extensively later, but it was a risk he was willing to take.

‘There was an elf some days ago who attempted to kill Elvaethor,’ he answered. ‘In the fight that followed, my brother broke the attacker’s right wrist. According to your captain, no elf has such an injury. Yet here you are.’

The elf’s eyes blazed in fury. ‘So much for the hospitality of the dwarves,’ he sneered. ‘I sustained my injury in my fight today, as I would have told you if you had granted me time to do so. Yet here I am, assaulted in the streets for the second time in one day. And I will not be willing to let this insult slide.’

‘Very well,’ said Jack. ‘If you speak the truth, then tell us where your assailant may be found and we will ask him to confirm this story. This can be done easily enough.’

It was quiet for a little while.

Then Halin spoke. ‘Jack, he never said that his attacker was male.’ His face had suddenly become unhealthily pale.

And then it landed. The elf had referred to his attacker as being a dwarf, but had carefully avoided indicating if they were male or female, even when it would have made sense to do so. Jack had assumed the dwarf was male, because all things told, they just got into fights more often and there were more dwarvish males than dwarvish females anyway.

But what if that was not the case? What if it had been Duria? Not Cathy, she’d never have the strength. But Duria might have, if she was really angry or in a tight spot, a life or death situation. It didn’t make sense, because he had not once thought of these things as connected. They had concluded that Cathy couldn’t have had the time to investigate yet, so the traitor had not been uncovered and wouldn’t have had a reason to attack either Duria or Cathy.

Unless the investigation had been going on for longer than he knew.

But still, how could that have happened? How could Duria ever have ended up in that kind of situation? She always avoided trouble. She didn’t go seeking it out. She had not done that once in all her life. And no matter what Cathy had told her, she wouldn’t have been persuaded to carry on that investigation. She would have shut it down quick as blinking.

But the elf still maintained his silence and that was answer enough for Halin, who slammed the elf harder against the wall than he had done the first time. ‘Where is my wife?’ he growled. ‘What have you done with her?’

‘I do not know who your wife is, dwarf,’ the elf snapped. Jack realised he did not even know his name. ‘Let go of me. And you may thank your own senseless behaviour for the untimely breaking of the alliance your king fought so hard to make.’

‘He will do no such thing,’ Jack said. He was grateful for Halin’s presence for possibly the first time in his life. ‘But if you value your life, I suggest you tell us where my sisters are.’

‘I have never met them,’ the elf protested.

‘Now that is a lie,’ said Flói. ‘I saw you talking to Duria some days past in the library. That was definitely you. Not that either of you noticed me, but that’s neither here nor there. You were there, so was she and you were talking.’

And a body who lies once, could easily do it a second time.

‘And I have yet to hear an explanation for your injury.’ He tried to recall if he had been hurt anywhere else, but found it hard to remember details of that night. Everything had happened so fast and he had functioned more on instinct than rational thought. That he had also hurt his head did not help matters. ‘Or rather, to have you give the name of the dwarf who gave it to you. We might also like to hear where this fight took place so we may ask bystanders about the truth of it. It must have been a memorable sight. I am quite sure folk will remember seeing it.’

He had no idea where these notions came from, but they sounded good and judging by the elf’s face, he had just realised that maybe this whole venture was not quite unfolding according to plan. The fact that he did not protest his innocence again spoke volumes as well.

‘Where are they?’ he demanded. Whatever else this traitor had done was not immediately important now. He would worry about that once he knew that Duria and Cathy were alive and unharmed. And any injury done on them, he would cheerfully inflict on this worthless elf’s body. If Halin did not beat him to it. Or Narvi.

‘You have no evidence for your ludicrous theory,’ the elf pointed out, still furious.

‘No, but we’ve got a lot of common sense to make up for it,’ said Flói. ‘Let me see. We know we’ve got an elvish traitor who got his right wrist broken when he tried to kill our elf, we know Cathy went to investigate aforementioned elvish traitor and that she came hereabouts this morning to do just that, we know that Duria met her here, we know they left together and haven’t been seen since and we also know that this night an elf with a broken wrist and a great many bruises he can’t explain showed up.’ He had ticked his points off on his fingers.

And put in that order, it made even more sense. It wasn’t evidence – the traitor was right about that at least – but there was not a shred of doubt left in Jack’s mind.

‘You’re forgetting that he has not accounted for his whereabouts this morning,’ Halin added. When he noticed their surprised looks, he clarified: ‘Cathy likes to share your mother’s stories. I’ve remembered a thing or two.’

Cathy had shared entirely too much with this dwarf – and the stories of their mother were supposed to remain a family thing, not to be shared with others, in his mind – but he had made a very good point Jack had overlooked.

‘Fair point,’ he admitted. ‘Answer the question.’ When that did not prompt a response, he added: ‘Or we could ask your folk if they’ve seen you about the place around the time my sisters disappeared. It would not serve you well. We already know what you are. If you are to be worthy of any kind of redemption at all, you will tell us what you know.’

It was a miracle Narvi’s patience had lasted as long as it had. But it was gone now. ‘Tell us where they are,’ he snarled. If Halin hadn’t already had him pushed against the wall, Narvi would have done it.

And then the elf laughed. Something had shifted in his face, as though he had realised that his lies had at last failed him. ‘Nowhere you will find them,’ he said. His mirth was genuine, but malicious. Odd. For all his loathing of elves, Jack had never believed them capable of any real evil. Yet that was what he witnessed in this one.

The look in Halin’s eyes was murderous. ‘I _will_ find my wife,’ he vowed. ‘Right after you tell me where she is.’

‘You’d be wasting your time, dwarf.’ The derision was plain in his voice for all to hear. ‘You’d only be bringing home corpses.’

Despite having caught the traitor, Jack felt like they had lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time we’re back in Rivendell for a certain council. Also, Thráin reunites with an old friend. It would be handy to have read chapter 20 of Duly Noted before the next chapter of The Book, because some things would make a bit more sense then.  
> As always, thank you very much for reading. And I do mean it when I say reviews would be much appreciated. I know people are still reading this and I love hearing from you. It helps to keep my motivation up when writing gets a bit hard from time to time and without feedback I can’t improve.  
> Until next Sunday!


	19. The Council of the West

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder that it would be helpful if you’ve read chapter 20 of Duly Noted before diving into this. It’s not mandatory and I think you’ll get most of it, but it would provide a bit of background.  
> Enjoy!

_I was little aware of the events that took place in Erebor. Thráin had told me that his homeland was under threat and it was clear that this troubled him. Throughout our stay in Rivendell it was plain for all to see that he wanted to be there, to help his family in fighting that threat. But the kind of danger he was thinking of was the danger an enemy army could pose. I don’t think he suspected for even a second that the nature of the threat was such that his own siblings were in mortal peril, especially not his sisters. I think that if he had known, he would have abandoned me without a second thought. And I am not sure that I could hold that against him._

_My concerns were different. I spent most of the night before the Council of Elrond lying awake, staring at the ceiling. This world and the people in it had suddenly become very, very real. My meeting with Boromir had taught me that much. I was perhaps starting to glimpse a little bit of the dilemmas Kate had faced, that these were living, breathing people and not just characters in a book. Life is that much easier when you can keep telling yourself that they are nothing more than that._

_And then there were more nerves, because the Council was looming large. I had thus far been part of one event that was described in the book, but the celebrations of the night before hardly counted. The Council would be different. That event mattered. It set the course for the future. There the decision would be made to destroy the Ring. And when that decision was made, there was nothing to be done about it. The quest would happen and, as per Gandalf’s wishes, I would go with the Ringbearer. Suffice to say, it terrified me._

_Little did I know that my cousin was just as nervous…_

 

Thráin had spent most of the night wide awake, despite the fact that he had retired early. He had no intentions of listening to the elves’ caterwauling all night. If anything, he wasn’t sure he felt like celebrating at all. He’d read the book cover to cover over these past few days – which had left him little time for anything else – and it had shaken him to the core. Whoever this Tolkien fellow was, he’d known far more about this world and its peoples than was possible. He knew his mother had once wondered about the same thing and had never learned the answer. It might mean that he too would have to go without.

Breakfast was a quick and mostly silent affair. Alfur and Halnor had taken young Harry on an adventure of some kind and Bofur was still abed. If rumours could be believed, he had at least enjoyed himself the previous night.

All that remained of his company were Beth, who appeared to have slept as much as Thráin himself had, Glóin, whom no one in their right mind ever spoke to until breakfast had been consumed, and Gimli, who knew his father’s moods and knew better than to speak. And Thráin was not feeling very conversational either.

In that way it was almost a relief when the sound of a bell rang out, summoning those who had been invited to the Council. According to the book, both Glóin and Gimli were meant to be present, so Thráin had asked them to accompany Beth and him. Moreover, when Beth’s presence would eventually be explained, as he thought it should be, the name of Kate would inevitably be mentioned as well. And Glóin was the one best suited to tell that tale.

Folk were still filing in when they arrived. Neither Frodo nor Bilbo was there yet and the wizard hadn’t showed either. There were however a great many elves present. Thráin recognised Elrond and a few elves he knew by face if not by name. He had noticed Legolas as well. To his surprise he even inclined his head in Thráin’s direction, a courtesy Thráin had not expected of him. He nevertheless returned the favour.

He only briefly took note of Strider’s – or Aragorn, as he should probably call him now, but old habits were hard to break – presence in the corner of the room, before his attention was drawn by a man’s voice.

‘Master Beli?’ The incredulity was unmistakable.

It had been a long time since Thráin had used that alias on the road, but he knew exactly when he dropped it. It had been twenty-nine years ago – and a month or so, but who was keeping count anyway? – after he had been broken out of a dungeon in Minas Tirith and he deemed the name too dangerous for continued use. From what he’d heard the Steward was the vengeful type and Thráin _had_ broken his nose.

He turned around. ‘Boromir,’ he acknowledged. ‘It’s been a while.’

It had certainly been enough time for his young friend to grow up and Boromir had grown tall indeed. He was still recognisable, true enough, but he was a grown man now, not a boy of ten. And the burdens his father had placed on his shoulders even at that age weighed all the heavier today, as far as he could tell.

‘I did not think to see you here,’ Boromir confessed. ‘But is a pleasant surprise indeed.’ He grasped Thráin’s hand in greeting. ‘I would have come to see you when I arrived last night had I known.’

It warmed Thráin to know that even after almost a full three decades – a long time for men indeed – he was still regarded that fondly. After all, men were not as steadfast in their friendships as dwarves were.

Their reunion would have been a joyful one had it not been for the feeling of dread in Thráin’s chest. He had read Beth’s book and had been horrified. _That_ was the fate that was in store for Boromir? Succumbing to the power of the Ring and then a fall in battle, almost as atonement? It had left a bitter taste in his mouth and a raging fire in his blood. Nothing about that was right. And he would fight against it with all that he had, even if only for the memory of two boys who had sought him out time and again when they did not have to.

He shook off the rage; at the present time it would do nobody any good. And he took a genuine pleasure in reuniting after so long.

‘You were not to know,’ he said easily. ‘And neither had I been informed of your arrival or I would have visited you.’ He had known Boromir would arrive before the Council, but did not know exactly when.

Beth meanwhile was staring between the two of them. ‘Hold on a moment. You two know each other?’

‘We made the acquaintance almost thirty years back and have not seen each other since,’ Thráin answered. He neglected to mention the friendship had formed in a dungeon; that was a story for another time. ‘But his father dislikes me and so I have not set foot in Gondor since. To my regret, I must say.’

Boromir smiled. ‘My brother speaks fondly of you still.’ He looked Thráin in the eye and added: ‘And your advice of then has not gone unheeded.’

Thráin remembered advising an unwilling Steward – pre-nose break naturally – to have a good long look at the defence works of his city and see to their restoration before ever an enemy marched on Minas Tirith. The Steward’s pig-headedness had prevented him from taking advice from a dwarf, but his son possessed more common sense and he had listened. Knowing what he knew now, Thráin was glad of it. It might make a difference.

He nodded. ‘That is good to hear.’ Then again, even at age ten Boromir had more sense than his father, so he should not have been too surprised. ‘And I am afraid I have a confession to make, my friend, for I did not give you my real name when we met.’

This appeared to come as a shock to Boromir. ‘Why not? You gave it before you met with trouble.’ Which was an interesting, if true, way of describing Lord Denethor. ‘Were you expecting enmity?’

Thráin shook his head. ‘I was not.’ Apart from his name and a few omissions here and there, he had been nothing but truthful. ‘But I dislike recognition where I do not look for it.’ When this did not clarify matters, he explained: ‘When we met, my father, Thorin Oakenshield, ruled as King under the Mountain, a position now occupied by my older brother.’ Judging by the look on Boromir’s face, understanding had dawned. ‘My name is Thráin, son of Thorin, at your service. I do sincerely apologise for having told you a falsehood.’

It took a few seconds, but then Boromir nodded. ‘I understand.’ It seemed like he did, but was also saddened by it. ‘Then I would assume you are on a mission of your own here?’

Thráin nodded. ‘We all are, I fear. The world has grown dark.’

There was a frown on Boromir’s face. ‘Has the Enemy’s reach extended even to your lands? That is bad news indeed.’

‘It has,’ Thráin responded. ‘And I should think I will speak of it before the Council later, as you will of your land’s plight.’

Boromir nodded curtly. ‘It is good to know that our struggle has not remained unnoticed.’ The fact that he clearly thought it was did not raise any of the people present in Thráin’s esteem.

They went their separate ways to occupy the seats assigned to them.

‘Honestly, do you know everyone?’ Beth asked in low tones.

Thráin snorted. ‘The world is too big to know every soul in it.’

‘You could have fooled me. So far there hasn’t been one person who’s in that book who doesn’t know you. Or of you,’ she amended.

‘I have travelled much,’ he said. ‘And I have been lucky in my friendships.’

Beth scoffed. ‘You can say that again. As far as I can tell you’re best friends with just about everyone we’re going to travel with.’

At this he laughed. ‘I fear the elf and the wizard would have a thing or two to say on that matter.’ And of the company the book had named only Aragorn and Boromir were counted as real friends. He barely knew the hobbits and he’d had enough of Gimli waxing poetically about whatever subjects had caught his fancy throughout the years to have much patience for it now.

There was no more time for conversation. Frodo had entered with the wizard and Elrond had called the council to order. Thráin had read the chapter dealing with this council, so most of the news that was shared was not entirely new to him. He had already read about what had happened to Gandalf and his misfortunes with Saruman and the troubles in the South and when Boromir spoke of the plights of his people, he felt troubled indeed. From what he could tell, the threat was more imminent now than it had ever been before.

And it was more than just the threat of orcs and their honourless allies that threatened Gondor. ‘It was not by number that we were defeated,’ Boromir said when he had reached the part of his tale that dealt with the loss of the bridges in Osgiliath. ‘A power was there that we have not felt before. Some said that it could be seen, like a great black horseman, a dark shadow under the moon. Wherever he came a madness filled our foes, but fear fell on our boldest, so that horse and man gave way and fled.’

Thráin felt cold. He remembered a fear just like it. ‘Pardon my interruption, Boromir, but that same power dwells in Dol Guldur,’ he spoke. ‘I cannot tell if it is the same one as the one that hastened the defeat in Osgiliath, but the fear Boromir speaks of is not unknown to me.’

Silence fell over the room. Thráin was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was stared at.

Well, he had started now. He might as well finish the tale. ‘There have been rumours about that old fortress almost since time immemorial, but I believe it was at last cleansed in the year the dragon Smaug was defeated. It has not remained empty. Folk never went near that place even after, for the memory of the darkness that dwelled there was too strong, so it is difficult to tell when this power moved in, but this past decade the rumours have grown stronger and stronger and so I ventured there a year ago to discover what truth there was in these tales, if any.’

Having read the book he knew the truth, but he felt it unwise to share his newly acquired knowledge when the existence of the book had not yet been revealed. Even then Gandalf had not approved of him reading it for himself and he had better things to do today than be chewed out by the wizard in front of a – mainly elvish – audience.

‘That was either very brave of very foolish,’ Lord Elrond commented. ‘And you were lucky to escape with your life.’

Thráin nodded. After all, it was the truth. ‘The fortress itself appears empty, from a distance, and that is as close as I dared to go. But the fear Boromir described is present there. It is a dark, oppressive thing that will drain a body’s every last ounce of courage in the blink of an eye and that does not abate until days after the encounter.’

Boromir looked him directly in the eye. ‘It is true then, that the reach of Mordor has extended that far north.’

Thráin grimaced. ‘And it is more serious than I have told you. I have cause to believe that my homeland will very soon be under attack. Glóin?’

The story of the messenger fell to him. Thráin had still been on the way back to Erebor when that had happened and Glóin had been there to witness it. And there was much that could be said of him, but he was precise and gave the telling much better than Thráin could possibly have done. And Glóin, as per their agreement, managed to keep it brief and to the point.

‘My brother has called for a council to forge an alliance of all the Free Folk in the region,’ Thráin said. ‘And I myself came here to warn Bilbo of the danger. There have been persistent rumours of armies amassing in the East and from Boromir we now know that they have indeed allied themselves with Sauron. And there is the threat of Dol Guldur in the south.’

‘Long has it been since any race has dared to defy Sauron outright,’ remarked an elf lord close to Elrond. He had not given his name, so Thráin did not know who he was. ‘And he has never responded well to such a course of action.’

‘The alternative was to betray a dear friend to the Enemy,’ Thráin snapped. ‘And Durin’s Folk would never sink so low.’

‘You mistake my comment for disdain, when it was spoken in admiration,’ the elf said. ‘Not many would have acted the same, except in great foolishness. And your brother does not appear to be thus afflicted.’

Compliments from an elf? He barely believed his ears.

Maybe it was for the best he wasn’t allowed to dwell on it. Gimli’s patience had been sorely tried by the long discussions – and not having anything to contribute to them hadn’t helped matters – and it had just about run out. ‘So we’re all aware of how dangerous the world has become. Are we going to keep talking about it, or are we going to do something about it?’

There were days when Thráin wished he could deny they were related. Unfortunately, he could not. Not that they were close kin – they shared an ancestor some generations back – but he was kin all the same. Thráin liked to think he came from a more sensible branch on the family tree, though, or a more tactful one at least.

‘You are right, Master Gimli.’ To his surprise it was Gandalf who spoke. ‘Much has been hinted at, but until now it was necessary to exchange the information. Your father spoke of the messenger that came to your door and the requests he made. Before this council it can be revealed that the ring that Bilbo found is not the least of rings, but the One Ring, the Ring of Power, that Sauron has craved ever since it was lost to him three thousand years ago. Frodo?’

Frodo looked uncomfortable when he stood up and put the Ring on a small table in the middle of the room. He appeared relieved to be able to sit back down and let everybody’s attention wander to the Ring instead.

And Thráin was not the only one who looked at it. It appeared to be nothing more than a simple gold ring without ornament. It was well made, solid gold as far as he could see, but not much to look at. It was just a gold band. In a way, it was almost a disappointment to see. If he had not known better, he would have laughed at the notion that such an insignificant looking piece could be the cause of so much misery.

Lord Elrond clearly thought they had not yet grasped the meaning of this enough, and so spoke: ‘Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom.’

Boromir shook his head. ‘No. Master Elrond, all due respect, but we could turn this doom to our advantage. It has come to us in our very hour of need by chance, if chance it was. If we could wield it, we would surely defeat the Enemy. And that would be his greatest fear, I deem.’

Thráin remembered this aspect of Boromir. Even when he was ten years old and had heard about dragons he had wished for one, so that he may use them to lay waste to the armies of orcs in the East. His thoughts had never strayed far from the danger Mordor posed to Gondor even then. Thirty years later had brought no change about in that. If anything, the boy eager to do his duty had been replaced with a man desperate to keep his people safe by whatever means he could. He had feared that was where his road would lead. He was saddened for his friend’s sake to find his expectations met in every respect.

‘It would be his greatest triumph,’ Strider – no, Aragorn – said. ‘None of us could wield it. It would only lead Sauron’s servants right to us. And the Ring wants to return to the hand of its Master.’

Boromir had not taken note of his presence thus far and Aragorn had clearly made a conscious effort to not stand out; he was wearing his old travelling clothes. He had noted him now. ‘What would a Ranger know of such things?’ he demanded, suddenly angry.

In hindsight he should have known that it had been too long since any of the elves had made themselves heard. ‘He is no mere Ranger.’ Legolas was up and in Boromir’s face before anyone else could have begun to think about acting. ‘His name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, descended through many fathers from Isildur, Elendil’s son, of Minas Ithil.’ He gave Boromir the kind of penetrating stare only elves could master and added: ‘You owe him your allegiance.’

Thráin recalled that Legolas told him on the road that they had a mutual friend. For an elf, it appeared that Legolas was oddly attached to this mortal friend of his, if the way he stood up for him was any indication at all. Strange, Thráin had never met an elf, apart from Elvaethor, who had fond feelings for those of other races. Surely they must have existed – history spoke of them – but it was something else to see it, especially in one such as Legolas. Granted, Thráin did not know him well, but with such a father as he had been cursed with, one would expect different.

Boromir gave Aragorn a long look that appeared to make both of them uncomfortable. In the end Aragorn told Legolas to sit back down and leave the matter be.

‘It does not matter,’ Aragorn said. ‘Not now. We have more urgent business.’ He looked around those gathered. ‘We cannot wield this Ring.’

No one questioned the truth of his words this time.

‘Well, if we can’t use it, we should destroy it.’ Glóin may be one of the more pompous dwarves in Thráin’s acquaintance, but he was still a dwarf and that meant he preferred actions over deeds. ‘Let not have the Enemy have use of it neither.’

‘Sound reasoning,’ Gimli judged. ‘What are we waiting for?’ Before anyone could utter any words, he was up on his feet, axe in hand. Thráin guessed what he was about to attempt a mere moment before he could do it and then he groaned. His kinsman was a dwarf, so he ought to know better. An object of gold that had no longer a reason to exist should be melted down. That was the best way to go about such things.

Of course, it was already too late to stop Gimli from making himself look like a fool and so it all played out in front of his eyes. Gimli marched to the middle of the room and brought the axe down on the One Ring. The axe broke and an invisible force knocked Gimli on his arse. Yet the Ring remained where it was, unscratched and seemingly even untouched.

There were shocked gasps from all around the room. Only Lord Elrond remained calm, and perhaps a little annoyed. ‘The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess.’ Just in case his kinsman had any more bright ideas. ‘The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There lies our only hope, if hope it be. To walk into peril, to Mordor. We must send the Ring to the Fire.’

Well, he’d always known that elves had a flair for the dramatic.

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Beth was thoroughly out of her depth and fast approaching a state of panic. In the days leading up to the Council, she had read the relevant chapter several times – when Thráin was not busy catching up, that was – so she thought she knew more or less what was coming.

And then the Council happened.

Nothing was as she had expected it to be and if it was, then it was mostly taking place in the wrong order. True, there was a lot of talking going on around her, most of it even about topics that she knew would be discussed. She even recognised whole bits of it as book text. And wasn’t that strange, hearing the words she’d read spoken aloud?

Other than that, nothing was as it should be. She had already been caught off guard when it turned out that Thráin and Boromir knew each other. It really would have been nice if her cousin had made some mention of that before that reunion took place. After all, he’d read the book as well, so he should have known that his old friend was going to be here.

And then the Council had begun. And things were said that weren’t said in the books. And maybe she should have known that before today. Beth had read the letters. Kate had complained more than once about _The Hobbit’s_ unreliability. And especially at first she’d found it difficult to discern between the events described in the book and the ones in the movie.

Maybe that was at least a part of the answer. Beth knew there were movies. They were old, granted, but they did exist. Peter had waxed poetically about them from time to time. He’d even made Beth watch them once, after she had lost a bet. But that had been at least fifteen years ago. And even then she hadn’t been interested. She had a few vague recollections, but the rest was lost. And with Earth a world out of reach, catching up was going to be completely impossible.

Even so, the fact that Thráin was here surely changed things as well. He had not even been meant to exist. But he did, and keeping quiet was very much not his style. He’d already interrupted once and his unexpected story about paying a visit to Dol Guldur – honestly, what had he been thinking? – had been a surprise as well. The only consolation in that was that everybody else was just as surprised as she was.

‘… It is folly.’ Her focus snapped back into place at the tail end of Boromir’s remark. Judging by what she heard he had just told one and all that what Elrond had proposed was madness to even think about, never mind actually attempt. From where he was standing, it probably was true.

Gandalf intervened. ‘And yet I believe that it is the only hope we have,’ he said. ‘And even so it is not as hopeless as you would believe, Master Boromir. We have something the Enemy does not.’ He looked right at Beth. ‘You may all have wondered why a woman unknown to you has taken part in this council. That riddle too may now finally be answered. I would like to introduce you to Miss Elizabeth Andrews.’

She felt that he would like for her to stand, but her legs refused to obey her. She did not like being the centre of the attention. And she was; every eye in the room came to rest on her. She had to consciously fight down the urge to run. It was one thing knowing she was the one brought in as an advisor, but quite another to have that much responsibility placed on her shoulders. The way Gandalf made it out, having her was the one ray of hope left to these people.

It terrified her to death.

Legolas frowned. ‘Begging your pardon, Mithrandir. I cannot see how a woman is hope for this quest.’

‘The same way Queen Catherine was the hope for Thorin Oakenshield’s quest,’ Gandalf replied. ‘Both the late Queen under the Mountain and Miss Andrews hail from another world where Middle Earth and all its people are nothing but stories. The quest to defeat a dragon was one such story. The war to come is another.’

Beth could tell nobody really understood. Truth be told, she hardly understood it herself. She wished someone could tell her how it was possible that what was a story in one world could be the very real future in another. She suspected Gandalf did not know either and the author of these books had been dead and buried for well over a century. There would be no asking him either.

Legolas’s gaze settled on Thráin. ‘Your mother always claimed she was of the West.’ There was an accusation in his tone.

‘A tale told because the truth was too strange to be believed.’ If Thráin was annoyed, he hid it well. ‘I myself did not know of her origins until after she had passed away. Do not be offended that you did not know the truth, Master Elf. Very few ever knew and only one of them is an elf.’ Beth suspected that it was this Elvaethor she’d heard about. For all Thráin’s often proclaimed dislike for the elves, he clearly had a soft spot for that one.

‘It might be fitting that that tale be told now,’ Gandalf said. ‘For it reveals much of the good Miss Andrews may do us in the time to come.’

Beth realised where he was heading with this. He wanted to point out how Kate’s presence had saved lives, so that the people here would be open to the possibility that she could do the same. The weight of that expectation was already close to suffocating. For some reason she hadn’t thought that it would ever be like this. She was supposed to be there in the background, giving advice when needed. But she was not important. After all, she was one of the little people, who did, all things considered, not matter in the greater picture.

Then again, she already knew that was not entirely true. Frodo was one of the little people too, or had been prior to this, and he would become so large no one would ever believe him insignificant again. Gandalf had a tendency to take these little people and more or less force them into greatness.

But how could that ever be her?

She listened in silence as the story was told. And although the main storytelling fell to Glóin and Bilbo, Thráin was more loquacious than he had been when Beth had first heard the telling. She knew from the letters that Bilbo had read _The Hobbit_ as well – Kate had been none too pleased with that at first – and he did not hide that he had done so to the council. And from the way Thráin spoke, he had read it too.

And all three of them made much of what Kate had done. She noticed that they heavily edited the events concerning the Mirkwood inferno – Thráin and Glóin possibly because they did not want to get into trouble with the elves for deliberately burning down their forest and Bilbo out of shame, she guessed – but were true to the real events otherwise.

And hearing them tell the story like that, drawing comparisons with what the book described and what happened because of Kate’s interference, made Beth feel as though perhaps she had sold Kate a little short.

‘You tell me that the town of Esgaroth was meant to burn?’ Legolas had abandoned all pretence at elvish calmness. ‘That would have been a great tragedy indeed.’ He almost seemed ashamed.

Thráin nodded solemnly. ‘Her advice turned a disaster into a victory.’ He took a deep breath and continued: ‘There is more than that, but that information cannot ever go beyond this room. And I would have your words before I continue.’

The council gave it without protest.

‘According to the book my mother had, in the aftermath of the dragon’s defeat my father should have fallen prey to gold sickness.’ There were gasps from most around the room. ‘My mother’s presence and the courage of one hobbit,’ he looked fondly at Bilbo, ‘prevented that from coming to pass.’

Realisation dawned in Legolas’s eyes. ‘Yet his mind did fail him,’ he said.

Glóin was up on his feet and grasping for his axe before the last word left his mouth. ‘Repeat that if you dare, elf.’ Next to him Thráin was visibly having severe trouble not doing the same. In his place, if it had been her father who was accused of madness, Beth might not have acted any different.

‘I do not speak of the siege that followed the dragon’s defeat, Master Glóin,’ Legolas said irritably.

Glóin did not even attempt to be polite. ‘What then?’ he demanded.

‘When Queen Catherine passed away, he succumbed to grief,’ the elf replied. ‘And his spirit did not recover in the short time before he followed her to the grave. I recall his father suffered a similar affliction after the loss of a son and father.’

This was news to Beth. She had been told that both Thorin and Kate had died, but there had been nothing about the manner of their passing. Judging by the unadulterated rage on Thráin’s face, there had been a very good reason for that.

Fortunately Gandalf stepped in and saved Legolas both from his own ill-advised comments and the dwarves’ wrath. ‘This council has not been called to examine Thorin Oakenshield’s failings, Master Legolas.’

The elf shook his head. ‘That was not what I meant. You mistake my comment for derision, when it is not. It seems to me that Queen Catherine must have wielded some power over him to guard his mind against illness and that perhaps only her death could break it.’

Beth had kept a close eye on Thráin and from what she could tell Legolas had just hit the nail on the head. And he was none too pleased about it.

Legolas carried on before her cousin could explode. ‘If that is the truth, then it stands to reason that the people of the world she hailed from have great power indeed.’

Beth was still looking at Thráin and suddenly very much wished she wasn’t. Even though it was obvious that he did not like what Legolas said, he believed it on some level. That little theory was confirmed when he first shot a quick glance at Boromir and then at her before redirecting his attention to Legolas.

_Oh, no._

It took no genius to work out his reasoning. In a way _The Hobbit_ and _The Lord of the Rings_ had a few similarities. Both featured a character that lost his mind, then regained his senses and promptly fell in battle when he had done so, almost as a punishment for the wrongs he had done during that short period of insanity.

But Kate had kicked over the board. She’d fought for Thorin’s sanity and won. And Thorin had not fallen. And now he was expecting her to perform that same service to a friend he had not seen in thirty years.

_Oh, hell._

She’d best kill this in the bud before anyone felt the need to attribute magical powers to her. ‘It’s not magic,’ she said. ‘If anything, it’s thorough research, common sense and the benefits of an outsider perspective. Kate had all three.’ And never ever had she thought she would defend the woman she did not quite condemn – but she had come very, very close – for what she had done.

‘And the people around her had the wits to heed her,’ Thráin added. ‘My father listened to her. If he had not, matters might have turned out very differently.’ Only a fool would not hear the warning in his words.

For a few moments the room was deadly quiet as the importance of this sank in.

Then finally Boromir broke the silence. ‘I have never trusted in magic to see things through,’ he admitted. ‘In Gondor the only unnatural power we know comes from Mordor and rightly we distrust it. And this sounds more like magic than anything I have encountered before.’ He saw that Thráin was about to protest and raised a hand to stop him. ‘But the story that has been told here is one of hope and we haven’t had hope in a very long time. So, I do not need to know the details of the story in the book that you’re carrying, Lady Beth, but I would ask if what we are attempting is futile from the start or that we do stand a chance.’ She could hear the question he was not asking: _Will my country still be there, be safe, when all is said and done?_ She could almost taste the desperation under the calm tone of voice.

And she did not quite know how to reply. She had a feeling Gandalf did not intend for her to share details. ‘Where I come from, nobody likes an ending that is not positive,’ she said. ‘And this book has been immensely popular for a very long time.’ Boromir clearly needed something a bit more explicit and so she threw caution and Gandalf’s warning looks to the wind and added: ‘Yes, we stand a chance. It’s not going to be easy and there might be some need for a few alterations along the way, but that shouldn’t change the end result. Only make it better.’

Besides, even if she didn’t do anything about Boromir’s fate, she had a feeling Thráin would fight it tooth and nail anyway. She didn’t quite understand it, this attachment to someone he hadn’t seen for almost three decades, but she could tell it was strong.

Boromir nodded. ‘Then I will consider myself reassured.’

‘And rightly so, Master Boromir,’ said Gandalf. ‘And so we have neither reason to despair nor cause to believe it folly.’ There was definitely a bit of reprimand in that for Boromir’s earlier comment. ‘Though as folly it may well appear to those who cling to false hope. Well, then, let our folly be our cloak, a veil before the eyes of the Enemy! For he is very wise, and weighs all things to a nicety in the scales of his malice. But the only measure he knows is desire, desire for power; and so he judges all hearts. Into his heart the thought will not enter that any will refuse it, that having the Ring we may seek to destroy it. If we seek this, we shall put him out of reckoning.’

Elrond gave a curt nod. ‘At least for a while,’ he said. Beth began to suspect that elves were not the biggest advocates of optimism. ‘And even though we have hope, the road must be trod and it will be very hard. Neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere.’

While Beth felt a little more secure now that she recognised lines from the book – and the attention had shifted away from her – she felt a new dread settle. If Frodo volunteered, as she knew he would, there was no choice for her but to volunteer as well. And even though she had promised to go already, now that the moment was almost here, the nerves attacked her with a vengeance.

Thráin decided to move things along. ‘In short, you’ll be needing someone to take the Ring to carry it to Mordor.’

‘Yes, Master Thráin. That is exactly what is needed.’ Elrond once again sounded distinctly disgruntled. Well, it was hardly a secret he did not particularly like dwarves in general and Thráin in particular.

Once again, silence fell. For all that everybody now seemed to agree with the chosen course of action, nobody was champing at the bit to throw themselves into that kind of danger. Truth be told, Beth wasn’t either, but she was the only one without a choice here. And she would not be volunteering for Ring-carrying duty as well.

Speaking of the Ring, it didn’t really affect her much. It had been there in plain sight for much of the council, but she hadn’t felt much of its power, apart from the moment where Gimli decided to try and smash it to bits. As it was, it wasn’t even very pretty. But having read the book, she had expected to feel more of a pull to it. Maybe it was because she was forewarned and knew better than to think she could do anything useful with it. Or maybe the evil in the Ring had decided not to bother with her when there were bigger fish to fry.

In the end Frodo broke the silence. ‘I will take the Ring,’ he said. ‘Though I do not know the way.’ He stood and looked around the council, to look for protest perhaps. He found none.

Beth could not help but admire him. She had known that he would make that decision, but that did not diminish the courage it took to do it. _I wish I had half of his bravery._

And she would need to find that and more before the quest was done. And now was perhaps the moment to begin.

So she forced herself to her feet. ‘You’ll be needing advice then,’ she said. She was relieved to find that her voice was steady even if her hands were not. She shoved them in her pockets to hide them from sight. After her speech just now she could not be seen to have doubts. ‘For whatever it may be worth, you’re welcome to mine.’

Frodo smiled hesitantly at her. Well, he barely knew her. Of course, that would probably change over the coming months.

It did not get the chance to become all kinds of awkward, because her volunteering to come had been the breaking of a dam, when Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli all got up and declared that they would see them protected. Beth would have grimaced in annoyance had she not known very well she would need protecting.

But it was unexpected. This was not in the book. Of course, it might have been in the movie. This felt like a movie kind of moment. She really should have paid more attention during her forced watching of the movies. Naturally it would have been even more helpful had she known to watch them before her meeting with G. Grey. Honestly, couldn’t he have given her some kind of inkling of what was expected of her before she came to Middle Earth?

Unsurprisingly Thráin was the next one to get to his feet. He’d promised her he’d come too because someone needed to protect her while all the others were protecting Frodo. In hindsight, it wouldn’t have been needed. Whatever Gandalf had intended, apparently she was now regarded as a valuable asset that needed looking after as well. Beth wasn’t sure she enjoyed the feeling.

‘An extra sword won’t hurt your cause,’ Thráin said. ‘And I owe your uncle a debt that wants repaying, Frodo.’ He nodded at Beth. ‘And neither will I abandon my kinswoman.’ Maybe it did not matter that she didn’t know what to make of him most of the time. He had his heart in the right place. Wasn’t that all she needed to know?

There was an exchange of looks between Thráin and Boromir and a gesture of the head on Thráin’s part that Beth could only interpret as an invitation to come join. Boromir arched an eyebrow and Thráin repeated the gesture. And Boromir joined.

‘I hope you know what you are doing, my friend,’ Boromir spoke softly when he came to stand next to Thráin, a notion Beth heartily seconded. In a way it would have been easier if Boromir did not come. It would be the easiest way to prevent him from falling prey to his book fate.

‘Have I ever not?’ Thráin asked innocently.

‘You did not have a clue thirty years ago,’ Boromir pointed out without missing a beat. ‘And your uncle had to come and save you.’

Thráin looked up. ‘Perhaps I did not feel in a hurry to leave,’ he said.

Boromir did not have a response to that.

Of course, he wouldn’t have time to give one. An indignant shout drew everyone’s attentions and Sam emerged from behind a potted plant where he had been in hiding. ‘Mr Frodo is going nowhere without me,’ he declared, marching over as if he was walking straight into battle. He pushed Aragorn out of the way and took his place beside Frodo. _And I will fight anyone who tries to stop me._ That wasn’t said, but it was written all over his face. Seeing as this was more or less written in the book, Beth was not surprised.

But it seemed Elrond was. ‘No, indeed. It is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not.’ He sounded, for lack of a better word, wry. Beth hadn’t thought elves could talk like that.

But apparently it was still open volunteering season, because the next moment Merry and Pippin came barrelling into the room. Beth did not have a clue where they came from – there weren’t many hiding places – but they had been completely unnoticed for the duration of the council.

‘Oi, we’re coming too! You’ll have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us.’

Of course they were. They were supposed to. They had a role of their own to play. And they had been the only two besides Frodo and Sam who had volunteered of their own free will in the book. Of course, there was a lot to be said for not clinging quite so tightly to said book, if this morning was any indication.

_Why did I think I can do this? This is like trying to find a safe road over quicksand._

Well, at least Pippin recognised the need for wiser heads on this journey. ‘Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission.’ He didn’t like the word and corrected himself: ‘Quest.’ Not liking the sound of this either, he eventually settled for ‘Thing.’ It was more than implied that he thought Merry and he were the “people of intelligence” he mentioned.

Merry thought differently. ‘That rules you out, Pip.’

Elrond had reservations as well. Then he looked at Beth, almost to ask if this was wise, if this was meant to happen. And he shouldn’t. She had no authority here. She was not even convinced she had what it took to fulfil this role. Besides, Elrond was positively ancient. Wasn’t he supposed to be wise? He’d let this happen in the book as well, although it had been on Gandalf’s say-so. Beth was not supposed to change that.

But the silence lingered and Elrond did not look away. She had to answer. So Beth nodded. This was what needed to happen.

It was enough for Elrond. ‘So be it,’ he said. Beth suspected he would have sighed in exasperation if he had not thought that beneath him. ‘You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.’

Pippin smiled in satisfaction. ‘Great. Where are we going?’

_On second thought…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual with canon events, this is a bit of book, bit of movie and a lot of my own imagination. I hope you enjoyed it.   
> Next time we’re back in Erebor.   
> Thank you for reading! As always, reviews would be appreciated.


	20. Climbing Upwards

_This council was known to me as the Council of Elrond and as far as I am aware, they call it that in Rivendell and in the lands in the west. But here, in the Lonely Mountain and the lands around it, it has become known as the Council of the West, to tell it apart from the council Thoren called in Erebor some weeks before it, that is unoriginally called the Council of the East._

_Most would be tempted to say that the Council of the West was the more important out of these two. They would say that nothing could possibly be more important than to decide what would be done with the Ring. The fate of the world depended on the decisions that were made there and the actions that followed from it._

_They would only be half right. The danger in the East was much greater than many of the participants could guess at. Besides, the Free Folk east of the Misty Mountains were relatively isolated and not under direct threat from Mordor. Oh, the Easterling armies were terrifying enough in their own right and surely something was happening in Dol Guldur, but it could not possibly be as dangerous as the power in Mordor. They would not care to be told how wrong they were._

_Even those who came from that area did not quite grasp how precarious the situation was and how imminent the threat. And with communication being what it is in this world, they would not be told either. How I missed the quick ways of exchanging information I was used to!_

_Of course, those in Erebor at the time would not ever be making the mistake of underestimating the situation…_

 

‘Where are they!’ Thoren slammed down a fist on the desk for good measure.

Opposite him, the elf flinched. Still there was no verbal response.

He would dearly love to shout some more. At the very least it would cover up the ever-growing sense of dread that sank its hooks into his heart and its claws into his guts. He was cold all over, but he would not break in front of a traitor and he would die rather than give up now.

‘Answer his question.’ Tauriel’s voice was cold, her face unreadable except for her eyes. There was fire there.

They had arrived just before dawn after a meeting in Dale that had begun in the morning and lasted far into the night. And he had felt secure enough to leave. He had been confident that Cathy would not defy him like that, that she would not so foolishly seek out the danger and leave the tracking of the traitor to those who knew what they were doing. He had not expected to be met with the tale of horror Jack had greeted him with.

At the very least the revelation of the traitor had completely erased Tauriel’s doubts and now he could rest assured that the elves were on his side in this, even if only out of shame and guilt for the crimes their kinsman had committed. Thoren cared not for their motives, only that his sisters would be found alive.

With Tauriel however it went deeper than shame for what one of her own had done. This traitor – Tauriel had recognised him as Cilmion, a skilled member of the guard – had attempted to murder her brother. It was unlikely she had forgotten this over the span of a few days.

Cilmion maintained his silence.

‘You have disgraced yourself more than ever an elf did before.’ Beneath the cold façade, Thoren could sense the boiling rage. ‘You have lost your honour and our kinship, for we do not maintain such bonds with those who have allied themselves with the Enemy. You can regain just a little of what you lost, a small measure of dignity and honour, if you answer now. Tell us what happened to Lady Cathy and Lady Duria.’

There were more questions and when this was all over for better or for worse, they would need asking. They needed to know the extent of his treason, how much their foes already knew of matters they should not know about. But even though he knew these were urgent questions, he could barely think of them. He desperately needed to know where his sisters were first.

_Maker, I beg of you, please let them live. I’d do anything, give my life if need be._

He could remember being this frightened only once before, years ago, when for reasons beyond Thoren’s comprehension Thráin had thought it a good idea to take Jack and himself for a swim when neither of them knew how to do that. Their father had rescued his brothers, but Cathy, who had come out with them, had been nowhere to be seen. It had turned out she was sleeping under a bush and had completely missed out on the panic. Thoren hadn’t forgotten just how scared he’d been that his little sister had drowned in the river and the relief he’d experienced when she had been found had been overwhelming.

There was no relief now. There might not ever be.

‘They are not dead.’ He did not know how he would bear it.

Cilmion finally spoke. ‘They are not alive. I told this to your fool of a brother, but he had not the wits to heed me.’

Thoren fixed him with a murderous glare. ‘We are not inclined to believe the taunts of a traitor.’

Cilmion scoffed. ‘Then no word that falls from my lips will be believed.’

‘Until we find proof that you spoke truth.’ Thoren had to keep on reminding himself that if he fastened his hands around Cilmion’s neck and squeezed the life out of him, he would be in no state to answer questions. As matters stood, it was the only thing separating Cilmion from certain death. ‘And such a thing can be very easily verified. Speak. Tell me where they are.’

‘Let me go and I will aid you in your quest of retrieving the bodies of your sisters.’

He was close to giving in, but rationally he knew that he could not let the traitor walk free. There was too much at stake, more than his sisters. He knew this and yet every fibre of his being begged him to give in and the consequences be damned. Every hour wasted lessened the chances of finding them alive. And Cilmion, curse him, knew this all too well.

He also knew that he could not let Cilmion go. If he had been any other than who he was, he might have considered it, but he was the King under the Mountain. He had people to protect. And all their lives combined weighed heavier than the lives of his two sisters, no matter how dear they were to him. How he _hated_ kingship on days like these.

‘I cannot do that,’ he said, hating the words coming out of his mouth. But he hated Cilmion even more. This was on his conscience. To betray his allies and his kin had been a choice and he had made that one alone. Thoren had no part in it.

‘Then you may be reminded that this is a big Mountain,’ Cilmion said. ‘You will not find their corpses unaided.’

 _I know my own Mountain, elf._ He would have snapped the words, but checked himself at the last moment. Cilmion would want him to lose his composure.

‘We are achieving nothing here,’ Tauriel remarked.

‘You are right,’ Thoren said, trying hard not to let the defeat influence his voice. He feared he failed. ‘We will resume our conversation at a later time. For now we have more important business to concern ourselves with.’

‘And I believe he will be most welcome to sample the delights of your dungeons.’ Tauriel’s words were addressed to Thoren even if her eyes were still focused on her treacherous kinsman. No, that wasn’t right. He was no kinsman anymore. Cilmion had lost the right.

‘You may rest assured in that knowledge,’ he told her, beckoning to Lufur and Ónar to take Cilmion to the deepest, darkest dungeon they would be able to find. Let him rot there. As long as he couldn’t see him, he might resist the murderous urges. His people did not kill. They killed orcs, but he would not sink so low as to lay a finger on another sentient being. But it was getting increasingly harder to remember that.

Lufur hauled the elf to his feet. Ónar took the other arm. It was reaching high for both of them; Cilmion was tall. But his hands were bound and not even an elf could equal the strength of two trained dwarvish warriors. He would not escape.

He’d already turned to leave the room, Tauriel following in his wake, when Cilmion’s voice stopped him: ‘One of them was pregnant, did you know?’

Thoren froze for just a moment, then turned around. ‘You have sunken lower than I believed if that is the truth.’

He felt sick. Maker be good, was there no end to this? Was this what it was going to be like from now on, just blow after blow until he would be brought down to his knees, unable to get back up again?

Cilmion smiled. ‘It is the truth. It was a kindness too to kill it now. Orcs would not be as compassionate. Their methods are less elegant.’

‘Murder is never elegant,’ Tauriel snapped. Thoren suspected she was hanging onto her composure by the skin of her teeth. ‘Nor compassionate.’

Cilmion ignored her in favour of Thoren. ‘Your sisters were granted the quick and merciful end that will be denied to you. Make no mistake, King under the Mountain, your people will fall. The world will change, but you will not live to see it.’

‘I can’t imagine Sauron has room for the likes of you,’ Thoren snarled at him. Rage was boiling in his veins. Something would have to give. ‘He prefers puppets, dancing to his tune. Of course, you are already such a one.’

‘No one told me to hurt your precious sisters,’ Cilmion said. He, unlike Thoren, as still perfectly calm. ‘The decision to end their worthless lives was mine alone.’

Thoren’s self-restraint was all but at an end and if not for the sudden steadying hand of Tauriel on his arm, it might have been beyond him to remain in place. He would have torn the offending elf limb from limb regardless of the consequences. And it would not have cost him a night’s sleep afterwards.

‘Their lives were never worthless, you lying scum.’ It was something altogether unnerving to hear those words from Lufur’s lips. ‘I’ve known those lasses since they were tiny babes. They were the Maker’s precious gifts to our people and loved accordingly. And when we find them, I will take personal pleasure in inflicting every wound on their bodies in threefold on yours. That’s not a threat, if you were wondering. That’s a promise and you ought to know that we dwarves are not the people for breaking our words.’

‘You’ll not find yourself short of volunteers to aid you,’ Ónar said. He was right; the whole Mountain would be clamouring for vengeance when the news got out that an elf had murdered two princesses of Durin’s line, one of them with child at that. ‘Permission to lock him up, my lord?’

Thoren nodded. ‘Keep him under guard. And alive,’ he added. ‘He can’t answer questions from beyond the grave.’

‘He seems incapable of answering them before it,’ Ónar observed.

‘Not incapable,’ Thoren replied. ‘Unwilling.’ And if it was tricks and blackmail he needed to make Cilmion part with his secrets, he would not hesitate. These ways were strange to him, but they had not been to his mother. And Thoren had never once denied the mannish blood in his veins. If adopting their ways was what it took to save his people, he would.

He left the room, into the corridor, where Fíli was waiting.

‘Any news?’ He had been praying for hours now that a miracle might happen and that by some chance both Cathy and Duria were still alive. Until their bodies had been found, he could not quite believe it. He did not want to believe it. Truth be told, he would not know what to do with himself.

 _Oh Cathy, why did you have to be so incorrigibly headstrong and put yourself in harm’s way?_ He rubbed his forehead in hopes of finding some answer, but none came. _And why did you rope Duria into it as well?_ For Durin’s sake, he had counted on her to be the sensible one in this, to deter Cathy from this madness in his absence, if deterring was needed.

Fíli shook his head regretfully. ‘None. The search is underway. We’ve started near the elvish quarters and are spreading out from there.’ He gave Thoren a long, hard look. ‘You know many of the roads thereabouts are not safe. There are many places from where they could have fallen.’

And in those deep abysses it would be almost impossible to find them. The Mountain extended deep down and even now, many places had not been discovered anew. The dragon had done so much damage that they were clearing away rubble and rebuilding the kingdom even almost eighty years after its defeat.

He hardly dared to think of the possibility, but knew that he must. Cilmion had taunted him with the words that he would not find his sisters without help and it would take time to search every single one of the deep places. _Maker have mercy._

‘I know. Have them searched.’ What else could he do? When business here was concluded, he would join the search himself. He would break the Mountain down if that was what it took. And yet the fear that he would find only corpses was settling ever deeper into his heart. What if Cilmion had not lied about that?

‘I’ve already given the order.’ Fíli was one step ahead of him.

‘Thank you.’ He meant that most sincerely.

‘Everyone is doing the best they can.’ There was sympathy in Fíli’s eyes, but not the pity he dreaded. Then again, Fíli would know better than most that pity would not help. Not that his cousin ever spoke much of the loss of his brother, but some things did not need to be spoken and their family had always done better with actions than with words. The fact that Fíli’s firstborn son had been named Kíli had spoken volumes. ‘Even Dalin has been seen assisting in the search.’

The mention of his childhood nemesis usually never failed to make him wrinkle his nose, but today he only nodded. This went beyond petty rivalries. This was an attack on all of Durin’s Folk and all of Durin’s Folk would fight it.

‘What if Cilmion is right?’ He had intended to only think the words, but they slipped out of his mouth unbidden. ‘What if they are dead?’

‘They are not.’ Fíli was very decisive. ‘Until proven beyond doubt. And I would not take the word of a faithless traitor for anything, especially not this.’

‘He speaks wisely.’

Thoren swivelled his head around to the door, through which Elvaethor had just granted himself entrance.

‘You should not be here.’ His friend could barely walk. That he had made it this far was thanks to a cane on which he was leaning heavily and even that seemed to cause him pain. ‘You are not recovered.’

Fortunately Tauriel backed him up in his. ‘You ought to be in bed, brother,’ she told him sternly, every inch the captain of the guard. ‘Your wounds pain you still.’

‘The knowledge that my friends are in peril pains me more,’ Elvaethor said. ‘Cathy came to me yesterday morning seeking information concerning the traitor and I failed to recognise her mission. It is a failing of which I am ashamed. I would do my utmost to right it.’

‘You don’t bear the blame for this,’ Thoren said, and he meant it. ‘This is on Cilmion’s conscience and his alone.’

Elvaethor looked up. ‘Cilmion is the one who betrayed us to the Enemy?’

Thoren nodded. ‘It would appear so.’

‘I see.’ Elvaethor took a deep breath. ‘I fear I suspect how the Enemy reached him and persuaded him to join his cause.’

Fíli frowned. ‘How?’ he asked. And then added: ‘For Durin’s sake, Elvaethor, sit down before you fall down.’ Despite the brusque tone, Thoren knew his cousin cared. He was surprised Elvaethor had yet to notice how well he was generally liked among the dwarves, even more so since he had abandoned his people and had joined Thoren’s.

Elvaethor obliged and Fíli held out his chair so that he might sit down more easily.

‘Tell us the tale, if you would,’ Thoren requested.

‘Cilmion despises dwarves and fears them,’ Elvaethor explained. ‘And has done so for a very long time. He is older than he seems, older than he would admit to. Not many know the truth. Thranduil might know, but Cilmion has never been an elf of much importance and he may have gone unnoticed. As has his resentment, I fear.’

‘You speak in riddles, my friend,’ Thoren told him. ‘What resentment do you mean and how is his age relevant?’

Elvaethor’s expression was solemn when he answered. ‘Cilmion, when he was young, witnessed the Sack of Doriath.’

_Oh._

‘He has no love for dwarves,’ Elvaethor said. ‘And I fear that his own king overcoming that bitterness from the past may have fed Cilmion’s resentment.’

‘That cannot be right,’ said Tauriel. ‘Lord Thranduil suspected a traitor in our midst even before the council. You know this, brother.’

‘Such an alliance was made eighty years ago,’ Elvaethor reminded her. ‘Lord Thranduil overcame his scruples then and has been on somewhat friendly terms with the dwarves of Erebor even since. This new alliance did perhaps strengthen Cilmion’s resolve, but I do not believe it created it.’

Dealing with elves was never easy, Thoren reflected. Was he now to be held responsible for crimes committed thousands of years ago by a people who were not his own? True, they had been dwarves, but they had not been of Durin’s Folk. Even if they had been, dwarves were not as long-lived as elves and to hold descendants accountable for the deeds of their father was madness.

‘So not only does he hate dwarves, but now he feels his own king has betrayed him as well,’ Fíli said. ‘Turning to Sauron for help was the logical next step, I’m sure.’ He snorted.

Thoren would have as well had it not been for the fact that it wouldn’t help.

‘The thoughts of traitors are beyond the capacity of other folk to understand,’ Elvaethor said. ‘And they are never beautiful.’

Truer words were never spoken.

‘We must join the search,’ Thoren said after a long silence. No doubt it would be of use in the long run to know why an elf had joined forces with Sauron, but it would not aid him in finding his sisters. And that had to take precedence now, regardless of Elvaethor’s information.

As it happened, he did not get the chance to join. Dwalin burst into the room without knocking. ‘We’ve found Duria.’

* * *

 

 

The darkness was oppressing. Duria had never once in her life found it so, but today was the day she changed her mind. Dwarves could see better with little light to go on, but even she needed something. And there was just nothing, not even the flicker of a candle far away. She dreaded to think just how far down she was and how badly things were looking for her, and even more for Cathy.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed since she had started climbing. Truth be told, it had taken her far too long already to find a decent place to begin her ascent. From what she could feel she suspected they had fallen into an old mining shaft that had gone out of use when the dragon had attacked Erebor and that had not been stepped foot in since. Maybe it had been exhausted or maybe it had not been taken back into use yet. Duria knew little of these matters.

Even so, she hoped and prayed that this place would exist on old maps. No, in fact she was certain that it would. Dwarves were not like men; they recorded everything. And the library had come through Smaug’s occupation untouched. After all, dragons could only be troubled about jewels and gold. Even though the worth of the books in the library was beyond price, he wouldn’t have seen the value of it and thank the Maker that he had not just destroyed it for the fun of it.

Either way, somewhere there was a record of this place and since that was the case, Uncle Ori would find it. Her uncle was relentless when it came to finding the right documents. In all her life she had not asked something of him in vain. He always knew.

And by now it would be noticed that Cathy and Duria were missing. Her sense of time had abandoned her, but she was certain that it had been long hours already. Narvi would have raised the alarm by now and if Halin was as much of an honourable dwarf as Cathy always made him out to be, he would have too. And it did not take a genius to retrace their steps to where they were last seen. The search would spread out from there and sometime soon, she would be found.

It calmed her to think like that. Then again, it was only reasonable. They would not be forgotten. Honestly, her brothers would die of exhaustion first before they stopped searching, and Narvi would not be so different. Maker only knew what Halin would do; Cathy, not Duria, had the monopoly on understanding him.

The reason kept the fear and panic at bay, but only barely and her defences weakened the longer she went without seeing any sort of progress. The climb was difficult too and she cursed her lack of sight. Was this what blind folk felt like every moment of every day? Every step had to be carefully tested. Duria was lucky enough that the wall was rough, so that there were narrow ledges for her feet and places to hold on to with her hands. But without being able to see them, she had to feel for them before she put her weight on them.

‘Cathy?’ she called down at some point.

‘Still here,’ her sister called back. The voice came from a fair distance below her, but not nearly as far as she would have liked. ‘Are you all right?’

That was a question she was better suited to ask of Cathy than the other way around. ‘I am,’ she replied. ‘How are you?’

‘Slowly dying of boredom,’ Cathy reported flippantly.

It was an unfortunate choice of words, since death was very much a possibility, but the cause would not be boredom, not with an injury such as Cathy had sustained.

She bit back the impulse to take her to task for it. ‘Just hold on a little longer,’ she called. ‘I will be as fast as I can.’

‘Not many other choices, are there?’

That was true enough, but that did not mean that Duria liked the sound of it. And she knew it was pointless to ask how Cathy felt; she wouldn’t get a true answer at all, if any. Her siblings had made too much of a habit of their don’t-worry-Duria-under-any-circumstance routine to break it even now.

She kept climbing. Her sense of time slipped away again. Her world was nothing beyond the rock she felt beneath her fingers and underneath her feet. All she knew was that it was slow-going. And there was no evidence to support her theory that she was making progress.

_What if I am climbing the wrong wall?_

The thought struck her out of nowhere and almost made her lose her footing. What if she was? What if this did not bring her any closer to the place where she had gone over the edge? What if this was another wall, leading to another place entirely? She had climbed the wall closest to her, but there was no knowing if it was the right one. It probably was, but she had been knocked unconscious in her fall and she could have rolled away from the place she landed. How was she to know when she had no recollection of the event and no light to confirm or deny anything at all?

That thought had given the panic just enough room to slip past what remained of her defences and invade her mind. She had not truly been frightened until now – not for herself anyway – but suddenly she was scared, scared of this never leading anywhere, scared of being trapped in the dark forever, of being too late to save Cathy.

‘Cathy?’ she called down again, certainly desperate to hear another voice.

She could hear her voice echo in the deeps, but no voice called up in answer.

Duria took a deep breath and tried to estimate how far she had made it since she had last exchanged words with Cathy. She didn’t think she had advanced so far that she had made it out of earshot. Besides, sound carried here.

There should have been an answer.

‘Cathy!’ she cried, louder this time. She heard the panic in the echoes. _Maker, please, please._ ‘ _Cathy_!’

There was no answer.

Had she passed out from blood loss? Had she died? Had the wound been so much more serious than she had been able to guess at? Was there maybe a head injury she had not been told about? Duria wouldn’t put it past Cathy to keep silent about it if only to save herself Duria’s fussing.

But even if she had known the full extent of Cathy’s injuries, what could she have done about them? She was not a healer. She was just a scholar. True, she was cleverer than the vast majority of Erebor’s population. She knew so much about history and languages and other peoples. A lot of good it was doing her now! There was nothing of any practical use in her skill set. She hadn’t the first idea what to do with a wound and what little she knew of climbing wasn’t of much help now. _Don’t let go_ had been Thráin’s advice the one time she had lost a dare and had to climb up the Mountain a ways to fetch a flower. But she knew no techniques, no tricks to make this easier or make her move faster.

 _If Thráin were here, he’d be home by now._ He knew how to survive under difficult circumstances. He probably would have been able to make this climb with Cathy on his back. The thought had occurred to Duria to try, but she had dismissed it almost immediately. The only certainty would be that they would both fall. She wasn’t good enough at this.

_What is the use of me at all?_

She had been frustrated before that her knowledge would be next to useless in the war to come and now she was faced with another reminder just how hopelessly unprepared she was for life.

 _I cannot give up_. That was the thought she clung to. It was the one trait she had in common with the rest of her family: not giving up, being too stubborn to even consider it. Cathy’s life might still depend on it, even when hope was diminishing with every heartbeat. _I cannot fail. I must go on._

And so she did. She tried to increase her speed for a while, but that only resulted in one stumble and one almost fall and after that she decided she could not risk it. She might survive a second fall, but Cathy might not survive the extra time waiting. It went against the grain to slow down, but it was the only option and Duria was still reasonable enough to know to take it.

Seconds became minutes and minutes became Maker only knew how many hours. She did not call down again. The lack of reply might make her lose what was left of her composure. She couldn’t afford it.

Her hands and feet felt raw, nearly numb, but there was no place to take a breather and grant them the rest they needed. She could only go on.

And still it was dark.

She was so tired. Her muscles burned because of the exercise she so rarely gave them in her daily life and her head ached. She knew she had probably hit it in her fall, something that hadn’t bothered her at first, but the longer it went unattended, the more it began to hurt. And even in that she had been lucky. She had only the one injury and her dwarvish blood had protected her from worse.

Suddenly it was all over. She could feel her fingers grab hold of a ledge that felt as though it was wider than the ones she had clung to before now. With what little strength she had left, she pulled herself up and found that it extended even further than she might have ever dared to hope.

She suspected she was looking far from graceful as she all but crawled onto the ledge and remained there on her stomach, panting. It could be considered a minor miracle that she had made it this far.

_You don’t have time to lie around. Cathy is still down there._

The voice of reason was right, as it usually was, and she got up. Only then did she notice what she should have seen immediately: there was light a little distance away. She had been so busy catching her breath that she had missed it. And that was the kind of error she never would have made if she was fully awake. Dear Maker, she could do with a bed and a long, long sleep.

Now that there was some light to see by, she also realised she had misjudged where she was. This was not just another ledge on her way upward. This was a corridor. No, it was the very same corridor where Cilmion had cornered them.

 _I wasn’t lost_ , she thought. Relief washed over her in waves, leaving her weak and shaking. She knew where she was and now all she needed to do was to find help.

Duria forced herself to move. Why in Durin’s name had she ever thought it was such a good idea to take Cathy so far from the main roads? The longer she thought about it, the more ludicrous it became. She was supposed to be the sensible sister. Out of all her siblings, she was the one who really should have known better.

Well, she knew the answer to her own question: she had been angry. And for once she had thrown caution to the wind in favour of dragging Cathy with her to a private place as close as she could find it. This had been where she had ended up. It was private and quite a distance away from people, but it also wasn’t safe. She had known that as well.

 _Mahal save me from my own idiocy._ She’d have no one but herself to blame if Cathy did not make it out alive.

If this had been any other day, she would have been embarrassed about the way she stumbled forward. But this was no other day and she had more important matters on her mind. Like her little sister, who may or may not be dead.

Luck was on her side at last, because when she emerged into the street, she bumped right into Dwalin.

‘Duria!’ he exclaimed, sounding almost shocked, which was a first from Dwalin. ‘Where did you come from? Where have you been?’

‘Cilmion,’ she panted, hating how very out of breath she still was. ‘Cornered us. We fell. I climbed out, but Cathy is still down there, severely injured. I couldn’t… carry her.’ She had meant to say _save her_ , but she suspected that, if Dwalin had managed to detect any form of coherency in her pathetic excuse for sentences at all, he would have worked that one out for himself.

Fortunately, it appeared as though he understood, at least enough to be getting on with. ‘I will fetch help,’ he said. ‘Stay here with Nori.’ He turned to her uncle, whom she had not even noticed until then, and added: ‘Look after her.’

Nori rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t need telling to look after my own kin,’ he said and whatever else a body might accuse him of, that was actually the truth.

He led her over to a bench, draping his own cloak over her shoulders and handing her a flask that she thought contained water. She hadn’t realised just how thirsty she was – her concern for Cathy and the need to keep on climbing had driven all else from her mind – until she took an eager gulp and had to conclude that sadly this was not water, but something stronger.

She coughed. ‘Water, please,’ she asked. Even so, the drink warmed her up and put an end to the sudden tremor in her hands. No doubt that was what her uncle had intended.

‘You looked like you needed it,’ Nori shrugged, before handing over another flask that contained the water she craved. ‘Careful, Duria, not too quickly.’

Knowing that he was right, she drank slowly, but still managed to drain the flask entirely. Her throat was grateful for it.

The sound of running feet announced the arrival of another, her husband as it turned out. He came barrelling into the street, ran straight at her and grabbed her in a hug that she hadn’t realised she needed until she experienced it.

‘Thank the Maker,’ Narvi whispered into her hair. ‘Thank the Maker you’re alive.’

Duria could only hold him, cling to him like her life depended on it. And finally she cried. Later she would be ashamed of that weakness, but in that moment the tears were stronger than she was. There was such relief that she had made it back to her loved ones, but there was also such fear about Cathy’s fate and shame that Duria might have made it back, while Cathy never might.

 _Out of the two of us, she is the better one_ , she thought. _And I should have protected her. And I failed._ The one area where failure should never have been an option was where she had so utterly fallen short. None of her achievements were worth anything in the light of that.

And she knew that when she saw Halin’s face. She might never like him, but she would never doubt his love for Cathy again. She couldn’t meet his eyes for long. The fear in them was more than she could bear.

It was good that she didn’t have time for long looks, because Thoren, much like Narvi had done before him, stormed into the street and forced her husband to release her so that he could hug her himself.

‘Don’t do that again,’ he told her. ‘Duria, not ever.’ She imagined that if he were less hopeless at speaking his heart he would have told her that he had worried for her and that he was so glad to find her alive again.

But she understood the meaning all the same. ‘I won’t,’ she promised.

He released her and returned to the matter in hand. ‘Dwalin said Cathy is still down there.’ The dread returned in his voice and eyes.

Duria nodded. ‘She is.’ Now for the hardest part. ‘Thoren, there must have been some sort of avalanche; her right leg got stuck. I couldn’t see much, but I felt the blood and I know she was in pain, although she tried to wave my concern off.’ As she always did. ‘She couldn’t walk and I am not a good enough climber to be able to both climb and carry her.’ She still hated that, but at least she was firmly back in control over her own words.

‘I will go down and find her,’ Halin volunteered immediately.

Thoren knew better than to object. ‘Of course.’

‘And I will accompany you,’ Tauriel spoke.

Duria hadn’t even realised she was there until she spoke. That she was missing things like a tall red-haired elf in the vicinity only strengthened the idea that she was not as well as she would have liked to be. At the very least she was only distracted, at worst she needed sleep and food to carry on. And that was the kind of weakness she did not like to admit she had, the one aspect where she perhaps took more after her mother than she’d like.

Tauriel turned to Duria. ‘You said she was wounded and in need of aid.’ She waited until Duria had nodded before she continued: ‘I am a skilled healer. What help I can give her, I shall give.’

 _But if her bones are shattered, you cannot remake them. And if the life has left her body, you cannot restore it._ But she kept her silence and nodded her thanks instead. It was already more than Duria had been capable of.

‘Bring her back,’ Thoren charged them. ‘Just bring her home.’

The words came right from Duria’s own heart, along with a few others. _Please, Mahal, just let her live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update will be on 27 August, which means you’ll have to make do without updates for two Sundays. I’ll be on holiday to England, so I will have no time to update this story. My apologies. But to make up for it there will be a special guest star in the next chapter.  
> As always, thank you for reading. Reviews/feedback would be much appreciated.


	21. Dream Phantom

 

_Now that the difficult decisions had been made, you would expect there would be no more wasting time. In that case, you would be very wrong. According to the book there would be two whole months between the Council and the departure of the Fellowship, because of the need to ascertain that there was no threat – mainly in Ringwraith shape – left in the area, so that we could slip past unnoticed. Thráin had argued in vain with Lord Elrond that we already knew no such threat remained near Rivendell and that much time could be spared and much suffering prevented if we acted now. Lord Elrond thought differently and, after some consideration, so did I._

_If there was one thing I had learned from the absolute mess that the Council turned out to be, it was that the book in itself was not as reliable as I would have liked to believe. For the first time I actually understood Kate’s endless mantra in the letters that the book was not to be taken as gospel, that it was fickle and unpredictable and as often right as it was wrong. And when it was wrong, that could also be because the real events for reasons unknown resembled the movies closer than they did the book. And at least she had remembered the movie. I had no such advantage._

_And so I agreed with Lord Elrond, even if just to err on the side of caution. This would mean another two months in Rivendell and more time to prepare. Thráin had already informed me that a sizeable chunk of my time would be spent on learning how to defend myself, with my cousin as my tutor. I was honest enough to admit that I would need instructing in that art, because I lacked any sort of experience._

_I imagined that the delay would grant at least one other benefit, namely that I would have a little more time with Harry before he would leave. Knowing how much Harry liked the dwarves, I had caved eventually and allowed him to go with them to Erebor. It had been hard to say who was more delighted at the news, Harry or the dwarves._

_And even though I knew I had made the right decision, I worried. There would be a war in the east, one I knew the dwarves would win, but even so, I was sending my own son to a warzone. But he would be with people who would defend him to the last, people that, despite my earlier misgivings, I trusted. On some level I trusted the elves as well, but I also knew that for them protecting Harry would have been a duty only. The dwarves would defend him out of genuine friendship and affection and somehow it made me feel more at rest._

_But extra time, it turned out, had not been granted. Now that their business in Rivendell had been concluded, they would need to leave soon before the fast approaching winter would make crossing the Misty Mountains all but impossible. And so the day arrived that I had to say farewell to my child…_

 

Beth knew that she was dreaming from the moment she opened her eyes. She was in her bed in Rivendell, true enough, but it was summer outside and she knew that it wasn’t like that in the waking world. It should have terrified her, to have a dream so vivid, but strangely enough, she wasn’t. Perhaps she had come to expect the unexpected and there was after all only so much that could happen to her in the dream world.

She got up and left the room. Of course, she didn’t know where to go, but her feet somehow did and they led her to the courtyard where she had met Boromir for the first time. It seemed like the place for meaningful meetings.

And she was proven right. There was a table in the middle, one that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a little English café, but that was utterly alien in Rivendell. There was a teapot on said table, and two chairs on either side, one of which was occupied.

‘I’ll pour the tea, if you’re ready to join me,’ said the woman who was already there. ‘Come on, it’s getting cold.’

Beth took a good look at her and stopped dead in her tracks. She knew that face, had seen it in countless pictures. ‘You’re Kate Andrews.’ She was. Moreover, she was Kate as she would have been when she was young, maybe Beth’s own age, only reinforcing the notion that this was a dream.

‘It’s been a while since someone used that surname,’ Kate observed. She did not bother to deny it. ‘Are you coming?’ she asked when Beth lingered on the stairs.

Reminding herself that this was only a dream and not reality, she stepped forward and sat down on the remaining chair. ‘I am dreaming,’ she said. ‘Which would make you a figment of my imagination.’

Kate laughed. ‘Only half right, I’m afraid. You are dreaming, but I’m not an illusion. I’m quite real, I assure you.’ When she saw that this did not necessarily clear matters up for Beth, she clarified: ‘You’re in a world full of magic now, Beth. There is more possible here than there was in England. If you actually research the whole dream thing, I think you’ll find there’s some precedent for this.’

It was hard to properly wrap her head around this. ‘But you are only in my head.’

Kate rolled her eyes. ‘Well, yes, of course I am. I am dead,’ she pointed out. ‘I can’t exactly drop by when you’re awake and share a cup of tea with you then, can I? This is a magical world, but even magic has its limits.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ And Beth had thought she’d seen and heard it all. But every time she’d thought that this was the strangest it could possibly get, Middle Earth would strive to prove her wrong again. Had someone told her a few hours ago that she would spend time with Kate Andrews drinking a cup of tea, she would have laughed them out of town. Or she would have sent them to the healers to get a potion that would sober them up.

‘Don’t question it,’ Kate counselled. ‘I don’t understand half of it and lived most of my life in Middle Earth.’ She handed Beth a steaming cup of tea. The smell of it reminded her so much of home she had to blink away tears. She’d always been a coffee kind of person, but she’d never turn away a good cup of tea either.

‘How very British,’ she remarked.

Kate shrugged. ‘Well, we are British. Even when we are not in the right world.’ She had a point there.

But Beth had questions. ‘Okay, so I won’t ask how you can be here, but can you at least tell me why I am here?’

‘I reckoned it was time we had a chat, as one advisor to another. Or interpreter, whichever term you prefer,’ she added when she noticed that Beth was about to correct her. ‘The word doesn’t matter, you know. It’s the same job.’

‘But we are not the same person,’ Beth said. ‘We will do things differently.’

‘Naturally,’ Kate said. ‘I’ve made a couple mistakes that you will not make. You’ll probably make a few of your own.’

‘It’s different than what you had to do.’ Beth remembered what Gandalf had asked of her. ‘He brought you here to change certain things. From what I can tell he only wants me here to ensure that everything turns out like it did in the book, because I think he believes that’s the only path which will guarantee the outcome he needs.’

Kate smiled knowingly. ‘Is that the case?’ she asked.

Beth frowned suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’

‘If you’re planning on doing as Gandalf says, surely that means you’re not also planning to save the life of a certain Steward’s son of Gondor?’ How she managed to sound so innocent, Beth would never know. ‘After all, that’s not exactly in the book.’

She blushed in embarrassment. ‘Well, if I wouldn’t do it, Thráin would,’ she defended herself, not even sure if Kate was actually judging her.

It turned out she wasn’t. ‘Hold your horses, I am not saying you’re doing the wrong thing. That would make me sound rather like a hypocrite, given my history. No, I’m all for this plan of yours.’

‘Then if you are not criticising me, why am I here?’

‘I imagined you would have a question or two,’ Kate said. ‘This job doesn’t come with a manual and there were times I would have given my right hand for some decent advice or just a chat with someone who knew what it was like.’ It was more thoughtful than people had described Kate to be. Well, Beth supposed that even Kate would have grown wiser in her later years. She may look young now, but that did not mean she was in spirit.

And if she was really honest, Beth had been craving advice lately. But she had also tried to create as much distance between Kate and her, because she had no intention of being her, or even remotely like her. And given the fact that Kate already knew about her preference for a different job title, Beth strongly suspected she knew what Beth thought of her. It made her feel uncomfortable and a little bit ashamed, especially now that she was starting to realise that Kate had performed a very difficult job.

‘How?’ she asked, not thinking about it any longer. ‘How did you look at them? You knew they were destined to die, but you still interacted with them, befriended them, even fell in love with one of them…’

‘To be fair, that was rather unintentional,’ Kate interjected.

‘Still, you were capable of behaving normally around them. From the moment Boromir told me his name, I’ve found it hard to even look him in the eyes. Because he’s a dead man walking, isn’t he? And I can’t tell him.’

‘Why not?’ Kate asked. ‘Thorin knew months in advance what was supposed to happen and we made the decision together that we did not like this outcome and that we would do everything in our power not to let it become a reality. And that does help, you know, the awareness.’

‘How?’ Beth asked again. ‘I imagine I would be terrified if I knew that some book told the story of how I lost my mind and died.’ It was a bit more blunt than she had intended.

If Kate minded, she didn’t say. Maybe she didn’t; she had lived for decades among dwarves and Beth had quickly realised they were not much for being delicate about sensitive matters.

‘You and I would be,’ Kate agreed. ‘But Thorin and Boromir are different. Both of them are warriors. They’ve seen battle and they know the risks. I don’t think the thought of their own deaths frightens them the same way. The thought of not being the master of his own thoughts on the other hand terrified Thorin. But because he knew of it beforehand, he was able to mentally arm himself against it. And he didn’t fall.’

‘Or didn’t he fall because he’d actually had a hand in killing the dragon himself?’ Beth questioned.

‘A little of both, I would say.’

‘This is not a dragon, this is the One Ring,’ Beth pointed out. ‘It must be much more powerful than a dragon’s treasure.’

‘Well, nobody said it was going to be easy, Beth.’ Kate sounded a little impatient. ‘It’s going to be one of the hardest things you’ll ever have to do. And you already know that staying detached, as you clearly still think you are going to be able to do, isn’t going to work. For your mission to be successful, you have to throw yourself into it. It didn’t start working for me until I decided that I needed to be more involved emotionally. Because, believe you me, I tried to remain detached. And it didn’t work.’

Now she was angry. ‘No, you forgot where you really belonged.’

‘Did I?’ Kate crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back to look at Beth, almost amused. ‘Because the truth of the matter was, I wouldn’t have belonged in England any more either. This world, this job, changes a body. And I don’t mean just physically.’ She touched the scar that ran the length of her face. ‘You wouldn’t be able to tell people back there where you’ve been. If you did, you’d be declared mad.’

‘Or they could believe me,’ Beth countered.

Kate dismissed that for the fanciful thought it was. ‘Then I suppose that’s what you’ve written in the note to your family, yes? The truth?’

They both knew she had not. She’d written some pathetic excuse about taking a sabbatical with Harry, to bond more since she hadn’t really done that before. It had sounded false even to her own ears. It certainly wouldn’t convince anybody at home, especially not Mary.

‘I told them the truth.’ The tone had softened. ‘I even sent the photographs I took. From what I can tell, only my brother and perhaps my mother believed what I told them. And I realise that they might have believed my words because they wanted to, because it was better than the alternative. I am not an idiot, Beth.’

The words hit home hard, so hard in fact that she almost choked on her tea. ‘That’s your advice?’ she managed to snap. ‘To stay here forever, in a world where I do not belong. Like you did?’

Kate shook her head. ‘No. That decision will be your own. There is a way back and you, unlike me, may decide to take it. I just want you to be aware that if you do go back at the end of this, it’s not going to be easy either and you wouldn’t really belong there any more, just like you don’t belong here. I did not take the decision to stay in Middle Earth lightly. You only have my letters, but has it ever occurred to you that I did not write my whole thought process out in the bloody things? Come on, Beth, I thought you investigated for a living.’

‘What are you telling me?’ Beth demanded.

‘That this is the price you’re paying for taking on this job.’ Kate looked her right in the eye and Beth suspected that she was brutally honest. In a way it was not unlike Thráin’s manner. ‘It is in no way fair, especially since it was Gandalf who made the decision and he doesn’t pay for it in any way as far as I can tell. The two of us, we have one foot in each world and each world has a claim on our heart and loyalty. People here will never quite get you. You’ll be too odd, too outlandish. There will be things you can’t speak of to them, but the same would be true about the people you left behind. When all is said and done, you will have seen a great many things most people wouldn’t ever want to see. It is going to make your very earthy concerns of before seem trivial, almost meaningless. You’ll be out of touch with them, like communicating on a completely different wavelength. And there’s a very good chance they won’t believe your explanation of where you’ve been all this time. And you and I both know that would have consequences too.’

Her words rang uncomfortably true. ‘You can’t know that,’ she said. ‘You never tried to return.’

Kate snorted. ‘Oh, I tried. I tried so hard.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But I tried to imagine what it would be like if my brother and I switched places, if he had been the one to vanish for so long and then came back with tales of adventures in Middle Earth. Would I have believed him? Truth is, I don’t think I would have, even though he was my brother. I would have thought it too strange, too magical, too far-fetched.’

Honesty dictated she admitted that Beth would have been the same. If Peter had come to her with such stories, she would have thought he was pulling a childish prank. If it had been Mary, she would have told her she’d lost her mind. She suddenly found she had trouble keeping her cup steady and so she put it down and hid her hands under the table.

‘What are you telling me?’ she asked.

‘To stop lying to yourself.’ Kate was blunt, but Beth saw the compassion in her eyes. ‘From the moment Gandalf took you, nothing was ever going to be even remotely normal again. Even if you’re only accepting that, it will help. And with everything that’s still ahead, you will need your friends. It’s incredibly lonely when you’re trying to take this on by yourself. They’re living, breathing people, not just characters in a book. And if you accept that as the truth, staying detached becomes impossible.’

‘It’s also a risk,’ Beth pointed out.

Kate nodded. ‘Yes, because it means you can get hurt, emotionally. Well, you’re an Andrews and the whole sorry lot of us are absolutely rubbish at being vulnerable. All of us in slightly different ways, but you certainly didn’t escape it.’

She couldn’t deny that. But she didn’t like it and so she changed the subject. ‘Well, any more tips?’ she inquired briskly. ‘Since you said you came here to give me some.’

‘On what paths to take?’ Kate threw her head back and laughed. ‘No, that’s your job now. Gandalf chose you for a reason only known to himself, though you might make good on that promise he gave you to answer his questions. It would save you the fruitless guessing. Oh, and Thráin will probably offer to train you with a sword. Take that offer. You’ll be embarrassingly bad at it for a bit, but it will help if you can defend yourself.’

Beth arched an eyebrow before she could stop herself. ‘Were you? Embarrassingly bad?’

‘The fact that Kíli was repeatedly falling to the ground, clutching his sides, howling with laughter should tell you all you want to know about the subject.’ Kate grimaced, but there was a fondness to her tone. ‘And you have a bit of time at least. I had to practise at the end of every day when I was already tired. Who knows, it might be easier for you.’

‘I will.’ She had already considered it. She might have done it even without Kate’s advice.

‘Good.’ Kate thought for a moment. ‘Would you do me a favour, Beth?’

She wasn’t promising anything before she knew what it was. ‘What favour?’

‘I’d like you to carry a message to the wizard,’ Kate said. ‘Tell him that we once had a discussion on the subject of another advisor and that I told him it was not an option, not ever. It’s bloody abduction, no matter how great his need is. And he is never the one who pays the price.’

‘We are, you said.’

‘And we pay it in regret and heartache.’ Beth could tell Kate was angry now. ‘Tell him that he should have remembered that, that he should have asked.’ She snorted. ‘Of course, neither of us can do anything about it, but he should be reminded once in a while. No matter how dire the situation, what he did is not okay.’

‘You’re still angry with him,’ Beth observed.

Kate did not deny it. ‘Angry is an understatement. I’m bloody furious. And if you would tell him that, I would be much obliged.’

Did one deny requests of the dead? Beth somehow didn’t think so. ‘I could tell him, I suppose.’ Not that Gandalf would like it. Beth wouldn’t like it herself. It seemed unwise to antagonise the one person who knew how to send her back home. Then again, these were Kate’s words. Beth would only convey the message.

‘Good.’ Kate stood. ‘And on that note, you must be going. And so must I.’ When she realised Beth was confused, she clarified: ‘You’re about to wake up. So I’ll be wishing you the very best of luck.’

‘Because I will need it?’ Beth guessed.

‘You most certainly will.’

The words were still ringing in her ears when she found herself back in her bed with the morning light falling in through her windows. The world was back to normal. It was autumn outside and when she glimpsed the courtyard from the balcony, there was no table there. It had been a dream, even when it had felt so very real.

It kept going round and round in her mind during breakfast, which was why she wasn’t very talkative. Of course, nobody thought anything of it. They would blame her silence on her reluctance to part with Harry and of course that played a role. She kept him beside her, which was easy, since he was still half asleep.

‘We will take good care of him, Beth,’ Bofur said after breakfast when the dwarves were mounting up. ‘Glóin will make sure he won’t forget his manners and the rest of us will keep him in high spirits. It’ll be the ideal arrangement.’

‘I know.’ She knew she had made the right choice in this. And Harry was going to be much safer than she had any hope to be. ‘But I’m his mother and I worry. I have been told it’s my right.’

‘Can’t argue with that.’ Bofur at least did not take her words as an insult. ‘But he’ll be with kin once we reach Erebor. I hope that’s a reassurance.’

Strangely enough, it was. She’d never met any of them, but she was starting to realise that such a thing was no impediment to dwarves. If you were related, no matter how distant, you were considered a friend, worthy of their protection. It was a far cry from what Beth considered normal. _From the moment Gandalf took you, nothing was ever going to be even remotely normal again_. Kate had said that and in this it didn’t really matter if she was real or just Beth’s own subconscious telling her some inconvenient truths.

So she nodded. ‘It is.’

‘Thráin’s sister Duria has two lads, little older than yours. I think they will get along just fine.’

His words were a comfort, or they should be. For Harry’s sake she was glad that he would be well looked after and that he might even have a good time. As his mother, that was what she wanted for him. If only she didn’t have to say farewell. There was no telling what the future would hold, not for her, and with everything that was about to happen, who could say if she came out alive on the other end?

‘What would happen to him if I don’t come back?’ _If I don’t survive this_ , she meant, but putting it into word felt too much like making it final and she wouldn’t go there.

‘We would never abandon him, lass. You know that, don’t you?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I know.’

After all, it wasn’t his fault she was in this position at all. Kate had been of the belief that she should hold Gandalf responsible, would be justified to be angry with him over what he had done to her. Maybe a part of her was. But she had spoken with him, looked him in the eyes and there had been no malice of any kind. He had done what he needed to for the world he lived in. But Kate had been right as well; she was the one to pay for that.

She directed her attention at Harry. He had been given some warm travelling clothes here, since there was nothing in his luggage warm enough for winter. She hadn’t anticipated a lengthy stay in Bristol, but it had been almost a month since she left home already. In some ways, it felt like a lifetime.

‘I will miss you,’ he confessed, sounding very young and very vulnerable. He had been cheerful in the days before, but the reality that he wasn’t going to see her again for a very long time had at last sunk in. There were tears in his eyes.

‘And I you,’ she said. Dear Lord, what were they doing?

It was all he needed to fly into her arms and hold tight. Beth held him, wishing she would never need to let go of him. It may be the last time she saw him. _If I don’t come back…_

‘Listen to Glóin,’ she told him. ‘He knows what he’s doing. And there will be other children in Erebor for you to play with. And I will be back before you’ve had a chance to miss me.’ And she could only pray it was not an empty promise.

‘I will miss you every day,’ Harry said with all the conviction he could muster.

Time was up. She forced herself to let go and hold him at arm’s length. With one of Alfur’s spare cloaks draped over his shoulders he looked older than he was. The garment was so big he appeared to drown in it, but he stood straight and made an effort not to cry. It was more than Beth could manage; the tears were rolling down her cheeks, even if she did contain the sobs that were threatening to accompany them.

‘You look like a proper traveller, young Master Harry,’ Alfur said.

‘True,’ Halnor agreed. ‘I daresay Alfur’s cloak looks better on you than it does on him. You should keep it.’ He winked at Harry, who gave him a watery smile in return. Then he turned to Beth. ‘We’ll look after him, Miss Andrews. And we wish you good luck on your travels.’

‘And I wish you safe travels as well,’ she forced herself to say. They were kind to her. The least she could do was repay the favour.

They were getting ready to depart. Glóin lifted Harry onto a pony and it was all Beth could do not to run after him and drag him off so she could keep him with her.

 _It’s like a punishment_ , she thought. _When I had him, I was always shipping him off to Mary’s and now that I want him with me, he’s taken from me._ Already his absence was like a physical pain in her chest. She recalled what Kate had told her about the price that was paid. _We pay it in regret and heartache._ She was experiencing both in spades.

Watching Harry leave was almost more than she could bear, but she remained in place, forcing herself to smile and wave. Knowing that people were watching enabled her to keep a grip on herself even after they had gone from view. She needed somewhere private, somewhere she could have a good long cry without people judging her for it.

Only then did she catch sight of Gandalf and she changed her mind.

‘Gandalf!’ she called out, collecting herself. And at least this would provide a distraction. ‘Could you spare a moment for me?’

In his meetings with her he had never been anything but kind and this time was no exception. ‘Of course, Miss Andrews.’

‘Beth, please,’ she requested. From Kate’s letters she knew that Miss Andrews was what he had called Kate. In this world, that name did not quite belong to her.

Gandalf led her to a bench in the garden and sat down next to her. He didn’t say anything, but simply waited for her to speak.

It was hard to decide where to begin, but eventually she settled for mentioning last night’s encounter first. ‘I had a strange dream last night,’ she said. ‘It was very vivid, more detailed than dreams usually are.’

‘Is that so?’ Gandalf asked. He certainly sounded interested. ‘What did you dream?’

‘I had a meeting with Kate Andrews.’ In her own world she shouldn’t have said this at all. People would believe she had lost her marbles. Of course, back in England this wouldn’t have happened to her in the first place. ‘I know it sounds mad, but… well, it happened. It could be my own subconscious,’ she added. ‘But I usually don’t even remember my dreams and the ones I do recall are not this detailed and they don’t feel this real.’

Gandalf nodded. ‘Would you care to share what you discussed?’

Beth looked at him. ‘You believe that it was her?’

‘Oh, most certainly.’

‘She told me she just wanted to talk to me, advisor to advisor. She gave me some pointers, a few eye-openers.’

Not that she liked it. The problem with Kate’s advice was that it effectively destroyed Beth’s sense of superiority, the absolute certainty that she would be able to do better than Kate had done. She rebelled against the thought, even though she knew that Kate was very probably right. Much as Beth did not like to admit it, Kate had done this before. She knew what she was talking about.

And Beth was starting to realise she didn’t have a clue.

She continued: ‘She didn’t actually tell me what roads to take or to avoid, because apparently that is my job now. But she did tell me a little about what it would mean to be an advisor on a quest like this, and the price I’ve got to pay.’

‘You will not be the same when you return to your world,’ Gandalf agreed.

She was already not the same anymore. Perhaps she had been irrevocably altered when she had been taken from her own world. It was hard to tell.

Beth debated telling him what Kate had said on the subject, but decided against it. She hadn’t come here to talk him into feeling guilty. If anything, she had a lingering suspicion Gandalf already felt some remorse over what he had done. But Middle Earth’s need had been greater than his scruples. Could she really blame him for that in the way Kate did?

‘Kate gave me a message for you,’ she told the wizard instead. ‘She wanted me to remind you that you once had a discussion with her about choosing another advisor and she told you that it was never an option, that it is abduction. And she told me to remind you that since it’s us who pay the price for your actions, you should have asked.’

‘You would never have believed me, Beth.’ The smile on his face was sad.

‘It doesn’t justify you playing God with our lives either.’ It had been an impossible situation, but she couldn’t help but think that if Gandalf had simply acquired the book and had gone to one of Kate’s children to ask them to help, they would not have told him no. But instead here she was and that brought her to her next question. ‘So, why me? Out of all the people in the world, why did you choose me?’

‘You know perhaps that Kate was aware that the Ring had been found?’ Gandalf asked.

Beth did not know where he was going with this, but nodded. ‘Yes, it’s in the book and she does mention it in her letters. How is this relevant?’

‘The Ring has a will of its own, a strong desire to be used.’ Gandalf did not look at her, but right ahead. ‘Kate knew what it was, but to the best of my knowledge, she never longed for the Ring and its power herself, even though she had a strong wish the power of the Ring could grant.’

There was a very simple answer to that. ‘She knew what it was. Why on earth would she ever have been so foolish as to want something as dangerous as that?’ Beth wasn’t sure she approved of Kate’s actions on that quest, but even she knew that Kate would never have gone near the Ring, knowing what it was. She wouldn’t have touched it with a ten foot pole and neither would Beth.

‘You underestimate its power, Miss Andrews.’ The wizard sounded stern now.

‘No, I think you underestimate Kate’s intelligence.’ Her predecessor had rubbed off on her; she was being just as blunt. ‘I don’t agree with a lot of things that she did, but she wouldn’t have done something that stupid.’

‘And yet I know what the Ring is and it has tempted me.’ Beth wasn’t sure what it cost him to be this open, this vulnerable, and so she didn’t question it.

‘But you’re a wizard, who would be able to wield it better. Kate was just one woman who just wanted to go home.’ So if Gandalf thought Kate had some special resistance to the Ring, he was very much mistaken.

‘Kate Andrews had more power than you think, Elizabeth.’ The use of her full name meant business, as it always had with her mother. ‘Not the kind of power that Sauron would understand, but a power all the same.’

‘The power of the little people,’ Beth understood. ‘And you’re hoping because Kate knew better than to want the Ring, I will know better because we are related.’

It wasn’t bad logic. If she had been in Gandalf’s shoes, she might have decided there were worse odds. It was a better chance than when he had taken a complete stranger. At least with Kate’s family he knew more or less what he was dealing with.

She noticed Gandalf was about to say something and pre-empted it. ‘No, it’s fine.’ Suddenly she felt weary to the bone. ‘I get it. I don’t like it, but there’s no undoing it now. Just give me some time to come to terms with it.’

She got up and left the gardens. To his credit, Gandalf did not call after her.

Beth made her way back to the quarters of the dwarves almost by instinct. Of course, there weren’t many left here now, but they had been allowed to stay there by Lord Elrond, which was a blessing of some kind. It was a small measure of familiarity in a world that was full of uncertainties.

Of course, it was too much to ask for a little peace and quiet, as Thráin cornered her the moment she stepped through the door of their living room. ‘Beth, good to see you are here.’

‘Is it?’ she muttered. If it had been up to her, she would have been back in England by now and failing that, on the road with Harry. Every minute was taking him farther away from her. Her usual tactic, to fall back on her reason, was no use to her now.

Thráin ignored it. Either he sensed her problem was not with him or he didn’t know what to do with it. And Thráin couldn’t help her anyway. This mess was not of his making.

‘I have something for you,’ he announced, beckoning her towards the dining table.

Beth looked. There was a sword there that she knew belonged to Thráin. It was one of the two swords he owned – or at least that he had with him here – she knew, but Thráin had a lot of weapons. It seemed most of the dwarves preferred to take half an armoury’s worth of weaponry with them when they travelled. Since that was apparently normal for them, she hadn’t said anything about it, even when it made her uneasy to see so many sharp objects in the same room as her young son. _Well, at least that won’t be a concern from now on_ , she thought bitterly.

‘One of your swords,’ she said, wondering why he was showing it to her.

‘Not exactly,’ Thráin said. ‘Pick it up.’

Beth preferred to be asked normally, but she was too tired and numb to get into an argument now, especially with someone who was her friend. She was almost certain they were friends anyway, even if he had very funny ways of showing it sometimes.

Still, she did as he asked and found that the weapon was surprisingly light. From what she had heard, swords and the like were quite heavy. ‘It does not weigh as much as I expected,’ she said, the first thing that sprang to mind.

‘That’s because the blade is of elvish make,’ Thráin replied.

_Elvish make? Hold on a minute…_

‘In life, it belonged to my mother. My brother thought it was good that I had it after she passed away, because I tend to get into a fair few scrapes.’ Beth was not in the least surprised to hear that. ‘But it’s an advisor’s sword really. And since you’re a mannish lass and not all that strong from what I’ve seen, I reckoned it would be a good fit.’

If he had been anyone else, Beth would have flown off the handle for those words. But because it was Thráin, she knew he didn’t mean to offend her – even when he really, really did – but just stated her weaknesses as a matter of fact.

‘This is Excalibur.’

She had scoffed at Kate’s name for the blade, because that was the best she could come up with? She didn’t understand the whole business about naming swords in general either. It was a weapon, a tool. It didn’t need a name. She wasn’t naming her computer or her washing machine, so why should swords have names? It did not make sense.

It was somehow different now that she held it. Okay, it still didn’t really need a name, but it helped in identifying this particular sword. Kate had in fact mentioned a bit of the history, enough for Beth to get that it was thousands of years old. And it looked brand-new.

‘So it is,’ Thráin said. ‘It looks like you can bear the weight quite well, but we’ll have to work on your grip, as well as your stance. Both are abysmal.’

Beth did not doubt that they were, but she was not a dwarf and it wouldn’t kill him if he was a little more polite about it.

She did not get the chance to speak. ‘We’ll get started on that tomorrow morning at first light,’ he decreed, making it sure that she understood that this was a matter that was not open for discussion. ‘As an interpreter, you will need to know how to defend yourself.’

And then he did something as thoughtful as using her preferred job title. There was no figuring him out sometimes. Or well, most of the time. Other than knowing that he was on her side, she never quite knew where she stood with him.

The use of the word made her realise that she had been childish, though, and that Kate had been right about one thing at least, even if she wasn’t sure about anything else she had said just yet. ‘Advisor,’ she said decisively. ‘The word doesn’t matter, does it? It’s the same job.’

She could almost have sworn he looked pleased.

* * *

 

The pain was getting worse. Cathy tried not to let it get to her, but it was hard. She did not really have any experience with being physically hurt and so had no idea how to bear it with the dignity she had seen in her brothers, who were seemingly capable of completely forgetting they were injured when they wanted it. Cathy would give a fortune to know the secret to that.

She still couldn’t see in the darkness, so she couldn’t see her leg. Maybe that was for the better, because honestly, she’d never been good with blood.

It was hard to tell the time. She had lost track of it long ago. Duria had been gone for a good long while now, but Cathy could no longer tell the hours apart. It certainly did not help that she had slept – she preferred that term over being unconscious – bits and pieces, but because it was so dark it was hard to discern between waking and sleeping now.

_Just let it be over._

She wanted to go home, to Halin. She longed to be held, to be told that it was all going to turn out all right. Those were childish feelings perhaps, but Cathy was beyond caring. There was nobody to admit these weaknesses to, and so why should she care?

 _What did I think I was doing?_ If she had listened to Thoren, none of this would have happened. She could have just told Thoren and Duria what she had noticed about Cilmion’s wrist and they could have sent someone competent to make further inquiries. Cilmion might have been apprehended then.

But no, she had to be so arrogant. She thought she knew better than everybody else. Because that was what this had been about. She’d wanted to prove herself. As it turned out, the only thing she proved was that she was wholly incapable of taking on a mission of this magnitude. Cilmion had escaped. If he had any brains on him, he would have fled the Mountain right after he had pushed Duria and Cathy over the edge, especially since Duria was adamant she had dealt him some very visible blows.

For the first time in her life she felt as though maybe Duria had a point when she insisted her siblings needed looking after. The recent events had made it clear Cathy at the very least was in no way qualified to look after herself.

 _Never mind a baby_. Duria seemed to believe that it was Cathy who was pregnant and not her. Not that Duria had actually ruled out the possibility that it might be her. And in this case it was far more likely if Duria was the one with child. She’d had two already and despite over a decade of trying, Cathy had none. It didn’t take a genius to work it all out.

She still wanted it, held on to that half hope that that Cilmion had been talking about her. It could be. But even then, after all that had happened to her in the past day – days? – who was to say she wouldn’t lose the baby? For all she knew, she might have lost it already.

_Or there was never a child to begin with. Don’t fool yourself._

She slept some more. It was not as if she had better things to do in this place. And by sleeping she would hopefully regain some of her strength.

When she opened her eyes again, there was light. It was not enough to see by and it did not reach her, but it was there, moving somewhere above her. It took her longer than it should have – her mind was so sluggish now – to realise that it was the light of a torch. It took even longer to conclude that somebody must be holding the torch and, judging by the light’s trajectory, that they were climbing down.

Duria must have made it and she had sent help. _Thank you, Mahal. I promise I’ll never snap at her again, never complain about her again. Thank you, thank you, thank you!_

‘Hello!’ she called out, but her voice was hoarse and she barely made a sound.

For a moment only silence answered her.

Then, a voice. ‘Cathy?’

She knew that voice. ‘I’m here!’ she called. She managed to produce a little more sound this time, even though it was hardly worth mentioning. The fact that she could barely make out the echo she caused was cause for concern. It would help if she could actually get a sip of water down her throat. She was parched. Well, she would be. Maker only knew how long she had been down here.

Fortunately she was heard. ‘Stay where you are,’ a second voice commanded. This one was female and it took Cathy a little longer to place before she recognised it. ‘We are on our way down to you.’

Good. Even if Halin had not been able to make out what she was saying, at least Tauriel with her ridiculously sharp elvish hearing would have. That was a relief.

Now that she knew help was on her way, she wanted them to be here with her sooner rather than later. She had been patient before because she had no other choice. There had been no way of knowing if Duria had even made it and nothing she could possibly know of her progress once she had gone out of earshot. But now she was ready to be gone from this place and to never return to it. Strangely enough it was daylight she craved most now, even when she had never had much of a taste for it before. But after this oppressing darkness she longed for the sun on her face.

Halin was the first to reach her and wasted no time in grabbing her in an embrace. ‘Thank the Maker,’ he muttered into her hair. She heard the depth of emotion in his voice. With a little shock she realised he might have suspected the worst.

 _That’s me, though,_ she thought bitterly. _Ever without a care for what it might mean to others. Never stopping to think what my actions will do to them._ And her thoughtlessness had not only very nearly cost her own life, but had also ensured that the dwarf she loved most in all the world had lived a nightmare.

Cathy clung to him. It was a bit of an awkward position, what with him still half standing and her unable to get up, but she drew comfort from his touch all the same. There was security in it, a promise of safety.

‘I won’t do this again, I promise,’ she vowed. The one good thing from this disastrous investigation was that she had learned her lessons, had been painfully reminded of her own limits. Dealing with treasonous elves was clearly not what she was good at.

Halin did not speak, only held her tighter. He was not a taciturn dwarf, this husband of hers, so his silence was only testimony to how overcome by emotion he was. Again, it shamed her. The long and short of it was that she had done this to him.

‘Not ever,’ she emphasised.

He spoke at last. ‘I thought you lost. He told us you were dead.’

Cathy frowned against his shoulder. ‘He? Who is this he?’

‘Cilmion.’ Halin let go of her and so she could see the look of utter hatred on his face. It did not suit him. Not even at the height of their childhood enmity had he ever looked like that. And he had not liked her back then, had really not liked her.

‘You caught him.’ That was good to hear.

‘He was caught,’ Halin confirmed. ‘Though not by me. You must thank your cousin for his quick mind and his sharp eye.’

She meant to ask which cousin, since she had a few to choose from and especially since they would all have been involved. A crisis was always something of a family affair. It would have been nice if she had remembered that before she charged in head-first, and on her own.

Halin did not give her the opportunity to ask her question. His attention had wandered to her leg, which he could see better now that Tauriel and her torch had also reached them. Cathy could see it better too and suddenly very much wished she had not. She would never describe herself as squeamish, but neither had she much of a stomach for the harsh world of hurt and injury. Her aunt was the healer, not Cathy.

Even so, she didn’t need to be a healer to know that her leg did not look good.

Tauriel was of the same opinion. ‘Your injury is severe, Lady Cathy,’ she informed her. ‘Though it seems luck was on your side.’ In Cathy’s eyes, luck had been remarkably absent these past few days. ‘Your bones are broken, but it appears not shattered. You may thank your father’s blood for that. A woman of Men would not have been so fortunate.’

It would not be the first time Cathy thanked her Maker for the blessings he had bestowed on her. Jack might mope about their mannishness till he was blue in the face, but Cathy knew there was more of their father in both of them than her twin would ever be capable of seeing.

Tauriel appeared to smile, though it was hard to see. ‘And you may thank your mother’s strength of mind for holding out such a long time.’ She shook her head. ‘You are remarkably alike.’

She had heard that one before. ‘That is nothing new.’ Only a fool would try to deny that Cathy had her mother’s looks.

If elves ever did something as undignified as snorting, Cathy strongly suspected that was what Tauriel would have done. As it was, she had to settle for an exasperated shake of the head. ‘That was not what I meant.’ She gently touched Cathy’s leg. ‘I merely meant to tell you that both your mother and you have an uncanny tendency to charge into danger without a second thought and sustain a leg injury while you are with child.’

The silence that followed her words was deafening.

Deep down Cathy was sure Tauriel had just said what Cathy thought she had said. And it brought her whole world to a sudden halt.

With child. Like her mother many years before her, she had jumped into danger unawares of the child in her womb.

She looked at Halin, who was looking at her open-mouthed, as though he could barely believe it. They’d both wished for a child of their own for so long and now that it was happening, it was so very unexpected. And it wasn’t a good time for it either. How could it be, with war on the horizon and their whole future uncertain? Her mother might have known the answer to that one and suddenly Cathy missed her very much.

Halin was still speechless, but it did not take Cathy long to find her tongue again. ‘You’re forgetting one similarity,’ she said. Her voice was not quite steady and she wasn’t sure if she was going to laugh, scream or cry – it was going to have to be one of the three, because she felt so full with emotion that it was bound to overflow one way or another – but talking helped. ‘In both cases you were the one to tell the mother she was with child in the first place.’

Tauriel’s expression was so flabbergasted that, despite the circumstances, the tension of the past hours finally released in waves of laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, apologies for the delay, but I wouldn’t have had the time to upload while I was away. And I hope this chapter made up for it a bit.  
> Next time we’ll have a little time jump in the story.  
> Thank you very much for reading and as always, reviews are very welcome.  
> Until next week!


	22. Levels of Trust

_It took me less than an hour to work out that Thráin had all the makings of a fine drill sergeant. He was relentless in his mission to make sure I knew how to survive out in the wild in the middle of the winter. He had done it before and he was doing me the favour of letting me learn from his experiences._

_His lessons in survival included learning how to make a fire, how to tell if there was water and game nearby, which plants to eat and which to avoid and a number of other things. They also encompassed learning how to fight, an art for which I had very little aptitude, or so I had always thought. Kate had warned me that I would be embarrassingly bad at it for a while and I was, but not for as long as I had feared. Thráin would keep coming at me and he got on my last nerve doing it, so much in fact that I forgot that I had manners and had left petty childish pride behind. My sudden need to make him back off did wonders for my fighting skills, which of course was exactly what he had been trying to achieve, the smug little bastard._

_When he found out that I had the habit of going for a morning run he started joining me on them. Naturally he had the kind of endurance in that department that I had – I wouldn’t have expected anything less – but at least Gimli, whom he bullied into joining us, didn’t and that made me feel a little better about myself._

_I certainly would not call the two months before departure a waste of time. I learned much and all of those things were necessary. But I was getting impatient. It’s not that I wanted to go on this journey – in fact I’d much rather not – but I wanted to get it over with. And lingering in Rivendell was not going to make that happen any sooner. Nor was it going to make the Enemy wait much longer…_

 

Winter had come on suddenly and with it the tidings of war. It was madness beyond belief to march an army in this bitter cold, but Sauron had by all accounts never much cared for reason anyway.

‘You’ve angered him,’ Duria said. ‘And he can’t be seen to let that slide.’

Thoren repressed a very unkingly snort. ‘He wouldn’t be seen to let it slide even if he waited some three more months till winter is gone from the land again,’ he pointed out. ‘And it’s been months since his messenger’s been here.’

‘But not so long since Jack charged headfirst into an Easterling encampment, took their prisoner and left chaos in his wake,’ Duria reminded him, not one to let somebody else have the last word for a change.

‘We’ve Jack to thank for the fact they weren’t here sooner,’ Dwalin said. He did not speak much at meetings as a rule, but when he had something to contribute, it was wisest to listen. He’d seen more than enough of battle and conflict and, more importantly, he understood it.

Jack looked as pleased with himself as he was ever likely to get. He had good reason for that, Thoren knew. Jack’s own account of his actions in the autumn had rather understated the effect the rescue mission had on the Easterlings. Dwalin and Lufur had told that much of the camp had been in flames when they took their leave and that many soldiers had been killed before the war had even truly begun. If Thoren had not been so distracted by worrying over Jack’s increasingly reckless behaviour, he would have been proud beyond belief of his little brother’s achievements.

‘We’re well prepared,’ Halin said. In his wife’s absence he was doing the talking for the both of them.

‘Good,’ said Thoren. He knew they were, but there was a nagging sense of dread at the back of his mind that would not leave. It whispered that there were things he had missed, things he should have seen to, but for the life of him he could not think of what those things should be. The only thing that may yet cause trouble was Cilmion, who had stubbornly kept his silence these past two months, but Thoren was convinced he knew something of vital importance. There was a smug sort of look in the elf’s eyes that would not go away, despite his continued captivity.

 _I’ve missed something_ , he couldn’t help but think. But if the answer had not presented itself in the last two months, it was unlikely to come to him now. And he was out of time. The fast approach of the Enemy had forced his hand. When this meeting concluded, he would ride out with his troops to stand beside the Men of Dale. He would not let it come to a siege if he could help it. The farther this war was kept from his home, the better it would be.

‘Still no word from Thráin?’ Lufur asked, predicting accurately the path Thoren’s thoughts were about to follow.

He shook his head. ‘None.’ And that worried him too. Thráin had never been the most cautious dwarf on the world and the chances that he had met with trouble on the road were considerable. _I wish you were home, brother._ What he wouldn’t give for Thráin’s support!

He had barely finished the thought when a knock on the door disturbed his little meeting. The dwarf on the other side did not wait to be admitted, but poked his head in. ‘Beg pardon, my lord, but there’s riders arriving from the west.’

That would be Thranduil, looking for reassurance that Erebor was ready for this coming attack. For someone who claimed not to need allies, he was nervous to say the least. _We’ve seen more battle than he has in recent years._ Since Thranduil always shirked his duty in actually dealing with roving orcs.

Ónar was quick to disillusion him of that notion. ‘It is Glóin’s party. I thought you ought to know.’

At last. ‘I will be just a moment,’ he said. ‘See that they are given food and drink. I will be with you shortly.’

‘About time,’ Jack said. He never said so, but Thoren was convinced that Jack liked Thráin more than he let on.

‘Go on,’ Halin said. ‘We’ll resume this when you’re done.’ This newfound friendship still took Thoren by surprise and he had never been good at hiding his emotions. And if Halin found the disbelief offensive, he had enough sense not to mention it. ‘They might have news we need to know,’ he added and so made it sound the respectable thing to do. That too was still a novelty.

Thoren didn’t need telling twice. Even so, it was not a private affair. Most of those who had attended the meeting in his study tagged behind him now. But for most of them it was also family returning. That didn’t mean Thoren would not have wished for the opportunity to have a few words with his brother before everybody else came barging in. He ought to have learned he could not all have it his own way long ago.

‘What could have taken him this long?’ Duria wondered aloud while they walked. She had done so more than once these past few months. Thoren hadn’t had much of an answer for then, so it stood to reason he would not have one now.

‘Wait a while and you may ask him yourself.’ Since her ordeal two months past Duria had become noticeably less bothersome, but situations like this brought out the worst in her. And Thoren had little patience for questions he could not answer.

But the truth was that he would dearly love to put the question to Thráin himself, preferably before Duria beat him to it.

More was the shame that he could not, for when he came upon the arrivals there was no trace of Thráin. There was no time to ask where he had gone, because Glóin was in front of him, expecting to be greeted. And his duty dictated he did, then asked how the road had been and if he would care to share his news once he had the chance to refresh himself.

Fortunately for him Glóin only stood on ceremony when it suited him and he was an impatient dwarf by nature. ‘No time,’ he said. ‘There’s tidings you’ll need to hear.’ He beckoned to Alfur to come forward. Alfur obeyed and only then did Thoren notice the young boy who was trying to hide behind him.

For a moment time reversed and he was looking at a young Jack. Then his common sense caught up and he realised there were differences. The shape of the face was slightly different and the eyes were green. The shape of them was also a little different. And never once in his life had Jack ever tried to hide behind anyone. He’d sooner fight them.

‘Don’t be shy, lad,’ Glóin chided. ‘He won’t bite.’ He sounded brusque, but Thoren knew him long enough to recognise the fondness underlying it. So must the boy, because he summoned his courage and walked forward, still holding Alfur’s hand.

Thoren sent a very questioning stare at his kinsman. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

‘This is Harry Andrews,’ Glóin introduced the boy. ‘Harry, my lad, this is Thoren, Thráin’s older brother.’

‘Pleasure to meet you,’ the boy said.

Thoren wished he could say the same, but he was fairly sure that he was starting to see bits and pieces of what was going on and the little he understood, he did not like.

‘Andrews?’ Jack echoed. Like Thoren and Duria – from the look of her -  he had immediately recognised the name. Also like them he knew that there was nobody in all of Middle Earth with a name quite like it.

‘The wizard did this?’ Thoren asked. The question was more a formality. He feared he knew the answer already.

‘His mother has been employed as an advisor for the war to come.’ That was as he feared then. And from there it was hardly a mystery what else had happened. Thráin would not have left any kinswoman to fend for herself in a world not her own. And so he dispatched her son to the safest place he knew and had stayed behind to be of assistance to the unnamed woman who had got caught in the wizard’s trap.

Duria had followed this line of thought. ‘That explains where Thráin has gone.’ Judging by her tone, she liked it no better than Thoren did.

Young Harry was looking at him quizzically. ‘Does that mean you’re my family too?’ he inquired.

‘I reckon so,’ Thoren said. After all, the combination of the boy’s looks and the strange surname left little room for doubt.

Glóin took it upon himself to fill in the blanks. ‘His mother is a granddaughter of your _amad_ ’s twin brother,’ he clarified.

Thoren understood this, but it seemed Harry was still struggling. ‘I’ll simply be your cousin, if you like,’ he said. That at least was easy to understand.

Harry appeared relieved. ‘Yes, please.’

He had urgent questions that needed to be asked, but they would need to wait a while longer. ‘These are my siblings,’ he said, beckoning Duria and Jack forward. ‘This is my sister Duria and this is Jack, my brother. I’ve another sister, but she is not here at present.’

Harry looked at them with wide eyes, still a little overwhelmed, it seemed. ‘Pleasure to meet you,’ he said again. He didn’t sound like it was; he looked bewildered and overwhelmed. And why shouldn’t he be? He was alone in a whole new world surrounded by strangers. They may be related, but he had never met them. And until a few minutes ago, Thoren hadn’t been aware of Harry’s existence either. It made Harry’s presence here even more remarkable. That Thráin trusted a young lad to his care was no great surprise, but that Harr’s mother had agreed to that was. It spoke of a measure of trust in him, a stranger, that he had not expected from a mannish woman.

The thought crept up on him that in some way his prayers for guidance had been answered. Another advisor had been found. That must mean that there was another book beyond the shadow of a doubt. But neither the advisor nor the book were here and Thoren suspected that this might mean that the story told in that book would not take place in Erebor. And so he was left without aid all the same.

He tried not to feel the disappointment too deeply.

‘You are very welcome to stay with me.’ Duria’s invitation masked his own lack of a response. ‘I have two boys of about your age.’

Harry managed a smile, but it was hesitant at best. Clearly the prospect of staying with yet another stranger was not filling him with unmitigated glee. He was still holding on tightly to Alfur’s hand. If the possibility had existed, Thoren would have assured him he would still see plenty of his friends, but he would need every able-bodied dwarf committed to the defence of the Mountain. Even if they would not ride out with him – and that was unlikely, given their recent arrival – they would have more pressing concerns than keeping a young boy occupied. Duria would have to do for the present time.

Even so he could not fault Duria’s manner towards the lad. Normally she would be overbearing past the point of endurance, but she had changed these past few months. She hardly ever spoke of her ordeal – and certainly not to him – but Thoren could tell it had shaken her to the core.

So with a gentleness and thoughtfulness that two months ago he would have believed beyond her, she coaxed young Harry away with her, leaving Thoren to speak with Glóin.

‘What happened?’ he demanded.

Glóin was never brief if he could help it and even though he clearly tried to contain himself, his report was still filled with more detail that Thoren believed necessary for the occasion. But he learned that the ring that Bilbo had found was in fact the Ring of Power, lost so long ago, that now a company had formed to destroy the wretched thing and that the book Beth Andrews brought with her told of the quest. There had been little choice for her but to join and so naturally Thráin had decided to accompany her.

Thoren could not fault him for that course of action. Had he been in his brother’s place, he might have felt compelled to do the same. _Any old fool can lead the defence of Erebor_ , Thráin might have said. _But she’s got only one kinsman to care for her. That’s no choice at all, brother._ If he tried hard enough, he could almost hear his voice.

At the same time the disappointment sank ever deeper into his bones. His mother’s words had led him to believe that she knew of things yet to come and that these things would be of relevance to their kingdom. He should not have assumed so, then he might have felt the disappointment less keenly.

‘Is there nothing you know that might aid us here?’ Thoren hated the pleading tone, but could not banish it either. The emotion was too strong.

‘Not much,’ Glóin replied. ‘Thráin wrote down what little he could find, but even that might be worthless.’

He was glad at least that Thráin had gotten hold of the book and had used it, even though he wasn’t here to deliver the message in person.

‘How so?’

‘He says it’s because of what your mother’s done.’ Glóin had never been as acquainted with the book as Thoren had. For all he knew, Glóin had never even read it. ‘She changed the setting of the board.’

Thoren understood what that meant. His mother’s very presence had ensured that further knowledge from her world would be of no use to her children. It dampened the disappointment over the lack of a book – because what use would it be to him anyway? – but it strengthened his despair. There was no certainty left to cling to, no guarantee that they would be able to see this through, no matter how hard. Such uncertainty had not bothered him before, but then it had been only skirmishes and talks with recalcitrant elves he’d had to worry about. This war on the other hand would be the greatest threat of this age.

Glóin must have guessed the path his thoughts were taking. ‘You’ve done a fine job so far,’ he told Thoren brusquely. ‘You’ll find your own way through this. Now stop brooding and get on with it.’

It was not the advice he’d wished for, but something told him it was the most useful counselling he’d had in quite some time.

* * *

 

Thráin had fully intended to sleep late on the day of their departure. They would not leave until dusk, since it had been decided that travelling under the cover of night was safest for the time being. He had counselled Beth to sleep as late as she could and had planned to do the same. Naturally he was wide awake before dawn broke.

He knew sleep would not grace him with its presence again and so he got up. If he needed, he could go without sleep for a while. It would hardly be the first time he would have to make do and considering the journey ahead, it would not be the last time either.

Rivendell was quiet as he stepped outside. It was never a source of great noise, but in the last moments before dawn, the silence almost felt unnatural. Then again, there was always something unnatural about the elves’ dwelling place.

He was not the first to rise of his company. ‘Good morning, my friend,’ Aragorn hailed him from across the street. ‘You are up unnecessarily early this morning.’

‘As are you,’ Thráin pointed out. ‘You ought to sleep while you can.’

‘I see you’ve failed to heed your own advice.’

‘Aye, but I’m a dwarf. There’s a difference between you and me.’ He’d travelled with Aragorn enough to know that his friend could forego sleep a while, but his body craved rest sooner than Thráin’s. ‘But it’s your choice to make.’ Far be it from him to tell him what to do.

‘The coming journey weighs heavily on my mind,’ Aragorn confessed.

Thráin’s eyes drifted to the sword on his friend’s hip. ‘Is it just the coming journey, or does your newly re-forged sword play a role in these troubles as well?’ he asked. He hadn’t known a thing about Aragorn’s lineage or destiny prior to reading the book. Aragorn – or Strider, as he’d called him then – had never spoken with him about it.

Aragorn smiled wryly. ‘You have acquired a great deal of new information,’ he observed. ‘One might almost believe that you have read a certain book.’

He wasn’t too keen to share that with Gandalf, but he had no reservations with Aragorn. ‘I have.’

‘I might have known. You know that Gandalf does not believe this to be a wise course of action.’ And Aragorn was close friends with the wizard, one of the matters they never stopped disagreeing on.

‘The wizard disapproves of many of my choices. It has never cost me a night’s sleep.’ He had inherited much of his parents’ loathing of the grey wizard’s schemes. Beth’s abduction had not improved that view. ‘And my cousin is grateful for the assistance.’ He steered the subject back in its original direction. ‘So yes, I know about you and your shiny new sword.’ But the Aragorn in the book had not been so reluctant about it. Well, perhaps that was just one of the many things that did not quite work out the same as it was written.

‘Lord Elrond believes that the time has come.’ The smile had gone. There was a pensive look in his eyes.

‘Lord Elrond is quite commonly known as wise,’ Thráin replied. Book knowledge should not be shared too freely. He knew his mother had been careful with it, except around his father, but he was the one whose fate needed changing. Aragorn would be well in the end, even if he did not know that yet. ‘And I for one believe he is right.’

He received a quizzical stare for his trouble. ‘Because the book tells you so?’

‘I don’t need a book to tell me something that is plain for all to see.’ And he did not. ‘I’ve known you a long time now. You’re good at leading folk. And in these times, it’d be good for the people to have a leader to unite under.’

‘Gondor has a leader.’

‘Lord Denethor is shit at ruling,’ Thráin told him briskly. He doubted that much had changed in the thirty years since he’d been in Minas Tirith. And Boromir was doing admirably in his stead, but he could see the cost of it on his face and in the way he held himself, as though the weight of the very world rested on his shoulders and his alone. ‘If Boromir and you could learn to get along, you’d kick Sauron all the way into the void without even needing to destroy the Ring in the first place.’

That might be an exaggeration, but he did not doubt that if these two men could become friends, they would work uncommonly well together. Naturally, they would need to learn to tolerate each other first. And that was something he did not foresee happening soon.

‘Is that something your book tells you as well?’ Aragorn appeared to be at least considering his words.

‘That Denethor’s rule fails, aye.’ Of course, he’d already been well aware of that. ‘And that you’d do a better job, yes, that too.’ Still, it was hard to picture Aragorn with a crown on his head, not after knowing him for so many years as just a Ranger.

‘Is that not witchcraft, to have so much of the future written down in a book from another world entirely?’ Aragorn did not seem pleased with it.

‘Undoubtedly.’ He did not fear the book, but it made him slightly uneasy. Whatever it was, it was certainly not natural. But it was useful. And in the grand scheme of things, that was all that truly mattered. ‘And my mother made it clear that the future is not set in stone. If it had been, my father would have died in the Battle of the Five Armies, Dáin would rule in Erebor and I would never have been born at all.’ He’d never stopped to think of the changes she’d wrought until he had read Beth’s book and realised that some of the things he knew and took for granted were very, very different in those pages.

‘We make our own paths,’ Aragorn understood.

‘Just so.’ Having said that, he did not think Aragorn would have much choice but to follow the path that would lead him to the throne of Gondor in the end. It was not a path he envied him. It was just as well Thráin had been born the second son; he would not have been fit to rule. And if it were forced upon him, he would have hated every minute of it.

‘Will you tell me, then, what changes you and your cousin have been planning these past few months?’ Aragorn shook off his heavy mood and smiled knowingly at him.

True, they had not been subtle. And Beth was at least a little reluctant, if not about their intentions, then at least about their abilities to successfully pull it off. Thráin was too, but he could not afford to let his doubts undermine his plans. His friend’s life was at stake.

‘Not yet,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But when the time comes.’ When that time arrived, he might be glad of the assistance, but with so much still uncertain, and Boromir and Aragorn still in mutual states of dislike, he was unwilling to speak of it yet. At the very least, he would prefer to speak of it with Boromir himself before he did anything else.

Aragorn did not appear offended. ‘Very well,’ he said.

Nevertheless Thráin felt he needed to explain himself further. ‘My mother compared her task once to something akin to walking a tightrope over a gorge in a gale. It is hard to do it exactly the way that would lead a body safely to the other side. And we can ill afford mistakes.’

Aragorn nodded. ‘I did not doubt you, my friend. In all these years, you have not led me astray even once.’

Thráin snorted. ‘Your memory is going, friend. Our little tumble into a warg’s den was nothing if not unintentional.’

‘True,’ Aragorn admitted. ‘But you led us out in the end.’ It was not just about their ill-fated adventure anymore, Thráin sensed, and he was touched and burdened by Aragorn’s faith in him at the same time. It placed a responsibility on him, something he had avoided all his life. Before long, the weight might be heavier than he felt equipped to bear.

He spent the day making the last preparations, ensuring they had brought everything they needed to bring. They were travelling as light as they could, but they had a beast of burden for the first leg of the journey and it would be foolish to not make use of it.

‘I can’t think as I’ve forgotten anything,’ Sam told him when they inspected the pony and the luggage that had been strapped to his back. ‘And yet I can’t escape the feeling that I have.’

It would not be the last time Thráin would find himself frustrated with something he knew, but could not share. It was rope that had slipped Sam’s mind, but he also knew that he would receive it later at the hands of the elves of Lothlórien.

‘We’ve provisions enough to last us some time.’ It was not a lie, but it was not speaking the truth either. The evasion made him feel unclean. It was something that went against his very nature. Perhaps that was why Gandalf had thought it best to select a mannish woman for this task; they did not have such reservations about not telling the truth. That did not mean he thought his cousin a liar, but the truth was more bendable to men in general. It was different for dwarves. You either spoke the truth or told the other party plainly that this was something that could not be spoken about. Yet if he did that, Sam would know instantly he had forgotten something and he might yet work out what. That in turn may not have great consequences, or it might. How was he to know? It was best to err on the side of caution all the same, much as he hated it.

The effort to do so might yet have been beyond him had Boromir not joined them. ‘I see we are well prepared, Master Hobbit.’

Sam appeared to grow an inch at the praise. From what Thráin had seen most folk took his efforts for granted. _Nobody will ever do so again when all is said and done._

‘Are you ready for departure?’ Thráin asked.

Boromir nodded. ‘We have tarried here too long,’ he said, a sentiment Thráin whole-heartedly seconded.

A full two months had come and gone after the council and in the world beyond the borders of Rivendell the Shadow ever grew. Thráin hardly dared to think of Erebor. The attack would not come yet, not according to the book, but then in the book Dáin would not have been so blunt to Sauron’s messenger. Would Sauron stand for that? Would he still have patience when he had been so outright defied?

‘You worry for your country,’ Boromir observed softly when Sam went about his business again.

‘As you do for yours,’ Thráin said. ‘And yet it is out of our hands.’ Even if he left now for home instead of Mordor, he would arrive too late to be of any use. He had made his choice, set his course, but it did not prevent him from wishing he could be in two places at the same time. If he could, he would be at his brother’s side, as he had been meant to be. From the moment Aragorn had told him that the situation was as dire as it was, he had always intended to fight this fight with his family. Yet here he was, the greatest threat of this age looming ever larger and he was miles away.

Boromir shook his head in disbelief. ‘I should not be here, my friend. My brother needs me.’

Beth had made the same point, if for different reasons. She’d argued that if Boromir was not with them, it would be hard for him to fall for the Ring’s temptation. There would be distance that would not be there if he joined them. It was a reasonable line of thinking.

Even so, Thráin had faith in their abilities to prevent Boromir’s fall from happening and if Boromir was with them, they could keep an eye on him. And the truth was that he did not trust the road south, especially for a man travelling on his own, whose path would lead him too close to Isengard and Saruman. The white wizard would pay good gold to have a chat with one who’d attended Elrond’s Council, to learn their plans. it went beyond saying that Boromir would never part with that information willingly, that he would be made to. And that would not end well. At least now Boromir would travel in a group. Going alone on his own would mean certain death.

‘Our efforts will mean that the war ends for good,’ Thráin said. ‘You could perform no greater service for Gondor than that.’

‘But until that time, the war drags on,’ Boromir countered. The worry for his homeland was etched into his forehead. Much depended on if Gondor could hold out until the time the Ring was unmade and they both knew it.

‘Then we should stop wasting time and make all due haste.’ He wondered though. ‘You would not leave us now, would you?’

Boromir shook his head. ‘I would not. I made a promise. Your people are not the only ones who know a thing or two about being true to their words.’ When Thráin reacted with surprise at this knowledge about dwarves from one who barely knew the first thing about them, he added: ‘Faramir took great pains to learn from you and I was not as inattentive as you may have thought.’

Thráin would not have believed him inattentive, but he had not expected Boromir to remember anything, or not as much as his younger brother at least. Faramir was the one who had thrown himself headfirst into a friendship with the dwarf in the dungeon, whilst Boromir had always been the more cautious of the two of them. Gaining his trust and friendship had taken time.

‘I did not believe you to be,’ he said. After all, he had remembered Thráin’s advice about the defence works as well.

Boromir did not acknowledge that in words, but he smiled. ‘I have been meaning to ask how your uncle is these days,’ he remarked, steering the conversation back to calmer waters.

This drew a laugh from Thráin. ‘Unchanged, I fear. He still does not speak any sense, or act in a manner that fits his age. We’ve lost count of the number of times he’s gotten into trouble. It’s driving his brother round the bend.’ It was hardly surprising Boromir remembered Uncle Nori; his break-out attempt had been so half-arsed and ridiculous that it would be hard to forget.

Around them their companions were gathering. Daylight was fading fast and when it did, they would need to leave. Thráin could not escape the feeling that there would really be no way back after that. He mentally swatted at it like he would at a fly. There had not been a way back for more than two months and it would not aid him to keep on thinking like that.

Boromir’s mind seemed to follow Thráin’s train of thought. ‘You asked me to come and I did,’ he said. That in itself had been remarkable enough. ‘You never told me why.’

And he did owe Boromir an explanation, but he could not give it here, not in Rivendell, where there were too many sensitive ears about. ‘I would rely on your trust a little while longer,’ he replied. ‘We need to talk, but we cannot speak freely here.’ No matter what was said of elves by others – mainly Gandalf – he had not been taken into their confidence and so he would not take them into his. And they always heard things not meant for their far too sharp ears.

‘Very well.’ Boromir did not argue and for that Thráin was grateful. It was testimony to the trust he had in Thráin, the trust he’d demonstrated thirty years ago as well. He only hoped to be worthy of it.

‘I promise,’ he emphasised, looking his much taller friend in the eyes. ‘When we are away from this place, we will talk.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: the Fellowship finally leaves Rivendell.  
> Thank you for reading. Reviews would be really very welcome!


	23. Learning Curve

_If my interactions with the people of Middle Earth taught me anything, it was that I had really no idea what kind of culture I had wandered into. Middle Earth and its people were vastly different from anything I had ever known before. Of course, this was not entirely new to me, but every time I thought I was getting the hang of this, something would happen or someone would say something and it would be very clear that I did not have the first idea of what I was dealing with. And it would feel like I was back at square one, struggling to understand, and not succeeding._

_I don’t suppose that it is doable to understand both worlds if one has only lived in one of them. It doesn’t matter that the individual words we speak can be understood by both speaker and listener, because both parties would often give them different meanings. And sometimes, even though the words are known, if they are strung into a sentence in a certain way, things get lost in translation all the same. The context is too different._

_Middle Earth to me seemed like a very medieval sort of world, with customs that would suit that historical era. I could understand some of it, because I had learned about it in school. But it was in no way a preparation for the real deal, because it was another world as well and learning about something from a book is very far removed from the reality._

_But in some ways I had it easy. At least I had some basic, very minimal, knowledge of Middle Earth and what to expect. I had something to compare this world and its customs to. But, as Duria was about to find out, the other way around is far more complex…_

 

‘Sweet dreams, Harry,’ Duria said, smiling down at the young boy in the bed. Dari and Nari had taken to their otherworldly cousin almost from the moment they clapped eyes on him and had insisted he sleep in their room with them.

‘Else he’ll get lonely, _amad_ ,’ Dari had pointed out. Normally Duria would have been suspicious and have believed it would be a flimsy excuse for mischief, but her son’s comment rang uncomfortably true. Harry had been quiet since his arrival. He appeared to have taken to his travelling companions and being separated from them as well as his own mother was clearly a blow he had yet to recover from.

‘Thank you, Mrs Duria.’ The reply was soft. There was little light, but his eyes looked almost teary to her.

Poor soul. His whole life must have been turned on its head, too fast for a child to keep up with. Her heart went out to him even as she silently raged against the wizard’s cruel schemes. It was one thing to do this to a grown woman – and even that was a dubious move at best – but to make a child go through this… Words failed her. And for her that was so rare as to be almost unheard of.

She gently brushed the hair from his face. ‘You’re very welcome,’ she told him. Her kindness would not take his pain away, though. And for once there was no sound logic to fall back on, only empty promises and those would not cross her lips. She couldn’t tell the boy that his mother would come for him, not even that he was safe in Erebor. Nobody could make such promises and expect to be able to keep them with war on the horizon.

‘Goodnight, _amad_!’ Dari called cheerfully from his own bed.

His brother was already mostly asleep and only managed a barely audible ‘night’ from underneath his blanket.

She left them, confident that they would not stir up any trouble tonight. Maybe, when Harry had settled in a little, she would consider moving him into the spare room. It would nip the mischief around bedtime in the bud. But for now this boy needed the company. He’d been parted from far too many people already.

‘They asleep?’ Cathy asked when she re-entered the living room.

Cathy had invited herself over for a visit. Halin was on guard duty for the night and Narvi had ridden out with the army today, so they both lacked the company they were used to. Duria missed her husband already, but worse than the longing was the not knowing. There was so much uncertainty these days. She had always abhorred that, strove to shine light onto matters that were unknown. She couldn’t do that now.

Duria nodded. ‘Or near enough.’

Cathy shook her head. ‘I can’t believe the wizard did it again. _Amad_ would have been furious if she’d known.’

‘And rightly so.’ Duria felt strongly about this. In fact, the strength of her own emotions had quite taken her by surprise. Maybe it was because the child looked so lost and no child should ever look like that.

Cathy looked at the pile of luggage in the corner. There was a lot, and most of it appeared to be writing of some sort. Duria hadn’t meant to take a look at it – all right, maybe just a peek – but it was hard not to see. One of the bags was half open; it was only natural she had seen something.

Glóin had explained that it was the new advisor’s research. Duria, being a scholar, had naturally found that interesting, so she had inquired if he by any chance knew what the topic of said research had been. Glóin’s first response had been to tell her not to ask. If he had meant to put her off, he had failed. Of course the quickest way to rouse Duria’s curiosity was to tell her not to look into something. Naturally she had repeated her request.

When the answer came, she wished she hadn’t.

Duria had always thought of her mother’s presence in Erebor as the most natural thing in all the world. Even after she had read her story this had not fundamentally changed. Her mother had lived in Erebor for as long as Duria could remember. Of course she had; if she hadn’t, Duria would never even have been born. Where else should she have been?

Yes, she knew that it hadn’t always been so and that was what caused her mother’s occasional sadness. But she had never personally met any of her family from the other world and if she hadn’t spared a thought for what this disappearance had done to them, that was just a slightly unintentional oversight on her part.

There was no avoiding that now. The pile of evidence was lying in the middle of her living room.

‘Do you think…?’ Cathy asked.

She didn’t finish her sentence, but Duria understood; she had been wondering the same thing all afternoon. ‘We probably shouldn’t,’ she said. These bags and their contents did not belong to her. They were entrusted to her for safekeeping only.  Besides, she was supposed to be the wisest and most sensible of all her siblings; it wouldn’t do to start giving the wrong example now.

Cathy remained unconvinced. ‘But it’s about _amad_ , isn’t it?’ she argued. ‘And I never really thought about what it would mean for her family.’ She considered that for a moment and then corrected herself: ‘Or perhaps I didn’t want to think about it too much.’

That spoke of more self-awareness than Duria could currently boast.

‘Even so, we can’t change the past,’ Duria said. Yes, she was long past denying her own curiosity – her siblings preferred to think of it as nosiness – but this was a line she did not entirely want to cross. It was like she was being pulled into two directions at the same time. On one hand she really wanted to know, wanted to learn, not only about her mother, but about the world she came from. The bags were tempting her with promises of knowledge, ready to be unlocked if she would only pick them up and study their contents.

On the other hand this was a painful subject. It was one thing to know about her mother’s origins, but quite another to know every last detail of what pain her disappearance had caused her family. Because Duria may find her mother’s decision to stay in Erebor a logical and right choice, but that did not mean her relatives agreed with that assessment.

‘No, we can’t,’ Cathy agreed. ‘But we can learn something for the present and the future.’ When this did not prompt immediate comprehension on Duria’s part, she elaborated: ‘This new advisor, Beth Andrews, well, she disappeared from her world without a word of explanation, didn’t she? Just like _amad_? Wouldn’t the same thing happen now, only now they are her relatives, and Harry’s?’

That did make sense. ‘Even so, what difference would it make? Gandalf will not undo what he did this time any more than he did the last time.’

‘But then at least we know,’ Cathy insisted. ‘And for Harry’s sake, wouldn’t it be best we knew a little something about his world? That way he’d have something familiar and it wouldn’t all be so strange to him?’ She was quiet. ‘The way it must have been for her,’ she added softly.

That struck a chord. Yes, it must have been beyond bewildering for the late Queen under the Mountain. She had left childhood behind before she came to this world, but still, it must have been stranger than words could describe to be in one world and then in another a second later. Duria couldn’t really imagine it, no matter how hard she tried.

All she could see were teary green eyes in a young face.

‘You’re right,’ she said. If put that way, she could justify going through somebody else’s belongings without asking for permission first. Either way, there was no way to ask for it; the owner was on the other side of the Misty Mountains. ‘We should put everything back where we found it when we’ve finished.’ Lest said owner find out they had helped themselves to her documents.

Cathy rewarded this with an eyeroll.

They picked up a bag and opened it. There were so many pages inside, all of them full of text. And if it was in any way organised, which she assumed it would be, she couldn’t tell how.

Cathy had picked up one from the top and studied it, a frown on her forehead. ‘I can read the language,’ she said. ‘But there are so many unfamiliar words, I can’t make any sense of it.’ She squinted at the page. ‘Ca-me-ra. Have you ever heard of that word?’

Duria hadn’t and said so.

‘Bus,’ Cathy went on, scanning the text to find more words she didn’t know. ‘That sound familiar?’

‘Not at all,’ she was forced to admit. ‘Would you mind if I take a look?’

‘Be my guest.’

Duria almost thought that if she could only see these strange words written down, a door would open in her mind and she would suddenly know the meaning of all of them. No such thing happened. It was the most frustrating thing. She was used to knowing something about most subjects. She knew more than most folk under the Mountain, yet this defied tradition.

And there were none of the odd words and phrases her mother used from time to time. Then again, there wouldn’t be. Those had all been somewhat informal. These documents had an official look about them.

It was hard work. There were so many terms Duria didn’t quite understand, used to describe people, objects or places that were foreign here, that did not exist in this world. So how was she supposed to know what they were? But slowly, as she concentrated, she started to get the gist of it if not the details, enough to know that nobody had known where she went or why she hadn’t come back.

The truth of this was driven home when she looked at a short text Jacko Andrews had written, presumably to her supposed captor. _If you have her, please just release her. Let her come back home. Please don’t hurt her. Just send her back to us. It’s all we ask._ And a helpful note in the margin told her that this text had been written after the letters had been delivered. He hadn’t believed it, had he?

 _Did_ amad _know that this was what would happen?_ Duria felt like maybe she had. Else why would the choice to stay have been so hard on her? Before today, Duria had known that it would have been difficult to choose, to give up everyone she had ever known. But the choice would have been harder than that. Because she hadn’t just have to give them up, she’d also had left them without hope, without certainty. Of course, she had told them the truth, but it didn’t appear as though they had believed it. And she had known that.

 _And I never understood. Thought I knew everything._ That was an arrogance of which she now felt ashamed. _I know nothing of hard choices whatsoever._

‘Duria, look.’ Cathy distracted her before she could sink too deep into it. ‘The letters. They must have kept them. Beth has them.’

Her curiosity was immediately roused. ‘May I?’ she asked, holding out her hands.

‘Let’s just look at them together,’ her sister proposed instead.

There wasn’t any opportunity to. The door to the living room was pushed open and Dari came in.

‘What are you doing out of bed, lad?’ Duria asked sternly. It was well past his bedtime and at this hour he ought to be asleep.

‘It’s Harry,’ he said. ‘I think he misses his ma. He’s crying. I’ve given him my stuffed wolf toy, but it’s not helping.’ He looked like he was close to tears himself.

And he was a sweet boy, this son of hers. He most certainly got that from his father and not from her.

‘You’ve done well,’ she told him. Most children wouldn’t dream of giving their prized toys to another child so they would feel better. ‘We will have to be patient with Harry for a while, sweetheart. He’s been through a lot.’ And would be forced to endure much more before this war was fought and won. Her Aunt Thora always said that children were resilient, that they could recover from much. For Harry’s sake Duria could only hope that she was right.

‘Can you make him feel better?’ Dari asked hopefully.

 _Nobody can promise that_. ‘I will see what I can do,’ she promised instead.

She got up and followed her son into the bedroom. Nari was sleeping – not a herd of passing Mûmakil would wake him even if they stampeded right past his bed – but Harry was curled up into the other bed, trying to muffle his sobs in his blanket. There was such helplessness in his cries it broke her heart.

 _You never asked for this, but the wizard decided it was for the best._ Duria was severely tempted to find the wizard and explain to him in detail and at length why this was not in any way the best course of action. And then, just for good measure, she would drive the lesson home with her fists.

She sat down on the edge of his bed and gently laid a hand on his shoulder.

The boy froze beneath her touch. ‘Sorry, Mrs Duria, I didn’t mean to…’

‘Hush now, nobody is angry at you,’ she said. The last one who needed to accept blame for this disaster was this boy.

‘I don’t mind,’ Dari chimed in, quick to reassure his new friend. ‘I’d cry buckets and buckets if my ma ever went away.’

Harry looked at them, eyes red and puffy from his weeping.

‘There’s no shame in tears,’ Duria told him briskly. She wasn’t given to weeping herself, but she remembered an old wisdom of Aunt Thora’s. It seemed appropriate to share at such a time. ‘I’ve heard it say that it’s very natural and good to cry when a body’s emotions are getting a wee bit too much for them. You miss your mother. It’s all right to cry over it.’

Harry looked like he only half believed it.

Duria made a decision. ‘Come, Harry, I think a cup of tea in front of the hearth will make you feel a little better.’ At any rate it couldn’t be worse than being alone in the dark.

The boy nodded and got up. Then he tried to give the toy back to Dari.

‘Nah, you keep him for a bit,’ Dari said, pushing it back into Harry’s hands, despite the fact that he hadn’t slept without it a single night in his life. ‘You need him more.’

This prompted the first real, if watery smile Duria had seen on him. She ruffled her son’s hair affectionally. ‘You’re a good lad,’ she told him. ‘Now, back to bed with you.’

Dari did as he was told. ‘Sweet dreams, _amad_.’

‘Sweet dreams.’ She gently took Harry by the hand – the toy held tightly in the other one – and led him into the living room.

Cathy had cleared away the documents while she was with the boys in the other room. That was probably a wise decision.

‘Tea, I think,’ Duria said. ‘Do you like that?’ Really, she should have thought of that before.

Fortunately Harry nodded. ‘Yes, please.’ Duria did not know the first thing about his mother other than her name, but she had raised her son with impeccable manners.

She let go of his hand and made to put the kettle on. Harry made no move to either sit on the rug in front of the fire or on the sofa. He just stood there, looking around him, uncertain of what to do.

Cathy stepped in. ‘Oh, come here, you beautiful boy,’ she said.

She walked over to him and then, to Duria’s infinite surprise, hugged him. Harry did not run away or merely let it happen. He held onto her like his very life depended on it and started crying all over again, great heaving sobs that shook his whole body. Cathy held him, let it happen, stroking his back, but otherwise doing nothing.

It lasted almost ten minutes before the crying subsided and Cathy led him over to the fire, where she sat him – and herself – down. ‘Feeling a little better now?’ she asked, smiling.

Harry nodded. ‘A little bit,’ he said.

‘Well, my shoulder’s available for crying whenever you need it.’ Odd. Cathy had never had a mothering bone in her body as far as Duria was aware, but she was good with this child. Harry appeared to be at ease. His shoulders weren’t so tense anymore and he didn’t resemble a frightened deer about to bolt any longer either.

Duria put the cup of tea in his hand. ‘Careful now. It’s a little hot.’

He managed a more convincing smile this time. ‘Thank you, Mrs Duria.’

‘You’re very welcome.’ What little comfort she had to offer, he was welcome to it. While he took careful sips, she sent a questioning look in Cathy’s direction.

Her little sister shrugged. ‘You forgot one piece of Aunt Thora’s advice,’ she said. ‘Crying is a good remedy, but a hug will do a body even more good.’

Of course she would have remembered that. Cathy’s hugs had always been plentiful and freely given. Duria on the other hand had never been really a master at displays of affection. Narvi usually initiated them and her lads would jump into her arms for a cuddle. She never refused to give them when asked, but she knew she was rubbish at making that first move.

‘Well, that’s… good.’ She did not really know how to respond to this. If she had been more like Cathy, maybe she would have, but she was not.

Cathy merely offered her a smile. ‘I have a feeling we’ll need a lot of them before all is said and done. I might as well get started.’

These words rang uncomfortably true.

* * *

 

 

 

The cold was sinking deep into her bones within an hour of leaving Rivendell behind. One wasn’t able to feel the sting of winter in the valley of the elves, but beyond it, it was inescapable. Beth did not know if the magic of the elves had anything to do with her perception of the temperature in Rivendell, or if it was just not as cold there because it was so secluded.

Her cousin was deep in conversation with Aragorn and neither of them seemed to feel the cold as she did. Then again, they were both used to being on the road, no matter what the weather. But the hobbits weren’t and even though it was cold, they went around barefoot.

‘It is good of you to join our mission, Miss Beth,’ a voice spoke next to her.

Beth almost jumped. Of course, it was dark and she had tried to bury herself in her cloak, but even so she should have noticed that someone had joined her.

‘Legolas,’ she acknowledged. ‘Leave the Miss out of it, please. My name is Beth.’

‘If that is your wish,’ the elf replied.

It was just politeness. It played a bigger role in this world than in Beth’s own and she had spent the past two months – sometimes in vain – persuading her companions that they should call her Beth. She was no lady, Miss sounded too formal, nobody she knew ever called her by either her surname or her full first name. This was apparently a thing that was hard to understand.

‘It really is.’ Still, apparently it was necessary to emphasise it. Again. ‘And it’s not good of me to join either. That was just Gandalf’s doing.’ She had made a promise since then, which meant she was stuck with this quest now until its completion. If she ever made it that far alive. But that was a nasty, disturbing thought she tried not to heed too much. She had to make it back, even if only for Harry’s sake.

‘Still, you are here.’

Beth did not know what Legolas was trying to achieve here. It was almost as if he wanted her to say something like ‘you’re welcome,’ but since that was not something she planned on saying, he would have to wait for a long time.

‘Yes, I am here.’ If it was up to her, she would have been home in England or, if that was not an option, with Harry on the other side of the Misty Mountains. ‘But not out of the goodness of my heart.’

‘As I believe your predecessor was,’ Legolas finished, if incorrectly.

The notion was so ludicrous that Beth actually laughed out loud. ‘No, she was as unwilling to go as I. At first, at least,’ she allowed. ‘I believe that by the time you met her things had changed.’ Because at that stage she had gotten close to Thorin and she had taken an oath to see the quest through. ‘You knew her, yes?’ She saw an opportunity to change the subject and grabbed it with both hands.

The elf smiled enigmatically. ‘I knew her as well as one of my kind could ever presume to know the Queen under the Mountain. She did not bear my people much love, as was ever the way among hers.’

Elves had a way of speaking that was still rather strange to hear. It was as if they were trying to turn every sentence they spoke either into poetry or something out of Shakespeare’s plays, including but not limited to the lengthy monologues.

‘I’ve heard elves don’t like dwarves either,’ she said.

Legolas did not respond to that, maybe because the answer was obvious. ‘I believed her to be a good lady,’ the elf said instead. ‘One who ruled fairly and whom I may have underestimated. I believed her to be ordinary.’

And Kate had been many things, but not ordinary. Gandalf had believed her one of the little people, but he had obviously been mistaken. He had been right enough about Bilbo. His chosen burglar had made ripples in the pond instead of the tidal waves Kate had created. Which of the two would become her fate, she wondered. Would she do as Gandalf had all but instructed her to do, to keep in the background and advise? Or would she turn out to be more like Kate after all and derail whatever plans had been made?

 _I was never a gamechanger_ , she knew. She never wanted to be, except the one time and Alex had still left. _I will not begin now._

Legolas had noticed the shift in her mood. ‘It appears I have given you food for thought. I shall leave you.’ He disappeared from her side as quickly as he had appeared.

Beth preferred solitude for the moment. She did not belong here, even though she was made to feel welcome in a way Kate had never been. She’d had to fight for her place, whereas Beth was dragged in kicking and screaming. And yet for all her judgement and her resolve to do things differently, here she was. Beth did not have a name for that. Some might call it fate, destiny even. And Beth had always shied away from those words. Did they not make their own futures?

She did not lack company for long. Gimli fell into step with her.

‘Was the elf bothering you?’ he asked brusquely. There was a lot of his father in his manner, Beth had discovered, even more so now that the aforementioned father wasn’t here to comment on it.

‘Not at all,’ she reassured him. She hadn’t exactly asked for his company, but he hadn’t stayed long and had buggered off when he sensed her attention was no longer on the conversation.

‘Good.’

They walked on in silence. Beth had her own thoughts to occupy her and it appeared as though Gimli had only come to keep the elf away. Now that they were on the road it wouldn’t do any longer to delay thinking about what must happen. And it had helped to be able to talk about it with Thráin. Her cousin, unlike Beth, had a plan of action.

He said there was no sense in altering too much up to the moment they came to the Falls of Rauros. Saving Boromir from his fate seemed to be his primary aim. When Beth had asked if this was also the best thing for the fate of the world, he had almost bitten her head off. She hadn’t dared to ask that question again, but after a few minutes of silence he had reminded her that getting the Steward’s head out of his arse would be far easier if his eldest son was still alive. There was nothing Beth could say to deny that.

So, fine, she was on board with saving Boromir. She had been more or less from the start, even if she privately doubted how successful that mission would turn out to be. But after that, she had no clue how to proceed, because the Fellowship would split up and then where would she go, who would she accompany, where would her advice be needed the most?

Thráin had been quick to volunteer to go with Frodo into Mordor. He was an able fighter, the Ring had so far not troubled him and he wryly pointed out that parading under the Steward’s nose was asking for unnecessary trouble. Beth had no idea what exactly had happened to make Denethor so mad at him, but it had to have been serious.

But if they chose that road, she would have to venture into a warzone. And she lacked fighting skills. Of course, she had been training, but she was woefully underprepared for an actual battle.

 _I could die here. I could die and my family would never know._ Harry would be left on his own… The mere thought of it made her heart beat too fast. Of course, Thráin had sworn he would be looked after, but the dwarves were not her. They were not his mother. _For all the good you did him._

She was snapped out of her thoughts by the arrival of her cousin, who had fallen back along the line, and his best friend. ‘Goodnight, Beth,’ he greeted. ‘How does the road treat you so far?’

If anything, he seemed to be in high spirits. He’d been restless for weeks, champing at the bit to stop sitting around and just go. And from what she had seen so far, it suited him. He wasn’t made for peaceful places like Rivendell. Here in the wild he appeared at home; he carried himself with more confidence, moved easier, as though he belonged, and he was suddenly a good deal more cheerful to be around.

‘Cold,’ she answered truthfully. Back home it was Christmas, or it had been yesterday. It almost certainly was past midnight now. Normally she would have spent it with her family. Mary and Terrance usually invited everyone over to their place. Last year even Peter had made an appearance. The sharp contrast with her current situation caused a sharp ache in her chest.

 _I never should have touched the Kate Andrews case._ Still, would that have made a difference or would Gandalf have found another way to reel her in?

‘Aye, it’s a cold night,’ Thráin agreed. ‘Even for this time of year.’

‘The winters are milder in my land,’ Boromir told her and she supposed that was meant as something of a reassurance, a promise that it was going to get better.

Thráin shrugged. ‘Could be. I’ve never seen a winter in Gondor.’

‘Because you are not welcome there, yes?’ Beth asked. She had been wondering and now decided to just ask. ‘Is that something I should know about, as an advisor, I mean?’ It was a good pretext to ask questions, she found. Thráin was not half as mulish about answering when she reminded him that it was quest-related, even when it was mainly to satisfy her own curiosity.

To her surprise, both Thráin and Boromir laughed.

‘I gave his father some unwelcome advice, he took offence and forgot his manners, for which I broke his nose,’ Thráin narrated. ‘For that crime I was locked up in the city’s prison. Boromir and his brother Faramir became regular visitors.’

‘Regular?’ Beth frowned. ‘How long did you spend there?’ _Honestly, Thráin!_ Hadn’t he been taught that punching people in the face, no matter how deserved, was not going to solve anything? She’d come to see that dwarves as a race were more inclined to violence than men, but this seemed somewhat excessive.

‘Best part of the summer, as memory serves,’ Thráin replied.

‘It would have been longer still if his uncle had not come to save him,’ Boromir added. There was a kind of twinkle in his eyes that betrayed he looked fondly on the memory. ‘It was a hard thing to forget.’

‘Because Uncle Nori almost botched the whole thing,’ Thráin explained. ‘He came in while Boromir and Faramir were visiting, openly declared that this was a rescue mission and then picked the lock on my door with a hairpin. Claimed he’d learned the trick from my mother, of all people.’

‘Kate mentioned locking the side door with a hairpin in the letters,’ Beth recalled.

She’d almost reached for them to show him the evidence in writing, but of course she couldn’t. All her research had accompanied Harry and the dwarves to Erebor. Elrond had assured her that it would be safe in Rivendell, but Beth had reasoned that it would be far easier to collect everything that belonged to her from one place once all was said and done. Lord Elrond had agreed with that. She would have to cross the Misty Mountains once, she wasn’t planning on doing it a second time.

‘She wrote about it for us as well,’ Thráin nodded. There was a pensive look in his eyes, almost sad. Perhaps it was; he had a hard face to read. If it was true that he took after his father in looks, it was suddenly easy to understand why Kate had often compared the exercise with pulling teeth or wrestling with a stubborn oyster.

‘The world both she and you hail from must be a remarkable one, Beth,’ Boromir remarked. He too had first called her lady and had then insisted on at least calling her Miss for about two weeks, before she had finally broken him off the habit. Or maybe she hadn’t; it was far more likely that he had followed Thráin’s good example. For someone with a death sentence hanging over him, he had a lot of faith in a friend he hadn’t been in touch with for decades. But likewise Thráin counted on Boromir to have his back. And she had seen a similar dynamic between Aragorn and Thráin as well.

 _Bonds of friendship are stronger in this world_ , she thought. _Or at least more meaningful. Once made, they are not so easily broken._

Somewhere in front of them Aragorn was halting. He had led them on all night, but in the east the sky was not as dark as it had been. Dawn could not be far off now.

‘We will rest here,’ he announced.

The hobbits did not need more than that; as soon as the words had left his mouth, they all dropped where they stood. Beth herself was tempted to follow suit, but she had more dignity than that. And at least she was somewhat better prepared for this than the hobbits. She’d had endurance before Rivendell and Thráin’s brutal training regime had improved it. It also had the added bonus that she had lost more weight in two months than she had in a year of dieting and morning runs. Would that it had given her more resilience to the cold as well.

Thráin and Aragorn appeared to be having a conversation with looks that Beth could not follow. Eventually Aragorn nodded. ‘No fire,’ he decreed, outcome of the unspoken agreement he had just reached with his dwarven friend.

A disappointed general groan went up at that and Beth was ashamed to admit she had been part of it. But she was cold and she wanted to get warmed up. Already she was very certain that her blankets were not going to do the job adequately. _I’ll forget what it’s like to be warm_ , she thought.

‘We’ll take first watch,’ Thráin volunteered. He sent a meaningful look at Beth, who translated this as _we’re going to have a chat now_.

Gimli frowned. ‘All three of you?’ he asked. ‘These lands are not as hostile yet as to warrant such caution, are they?’ But his hand crept closer to his axe all the same.

‘Much as it pains me to agree with the dwarf, he is right.’ Legolas did sound like he had trouble letting the words cross his lips, but he definitely smirked at Gimli’s dumbstruck expression.

‘We have important business to discuss before we can think of sleep,’ Thráin said curtly.

‘What business is it that requires all three of you?’ Gandalf finally seemed to have cottoned on to what was going on. Because if this had been simply advisor business, they would not have involved Boromir. And they were.

Beth was still not sure that it was even going to work. Thráin’s faith in their abilities appeared to be strong and unmoveable as the mountains to their left, but Beth didn’t share his optimism by a long way.

Kate had tried to change things and nine out of ten times, trouble found them regardless and the book had its way after all. It had taken all her resourcefulness to shift the outcome. Her legacy was that Thorin had lived long enough to become King under the Mountain and father children. It also was the survival of Lake-town, that otherwise would have burned. All things said, it was not much in the greater picture. The Ring still needed to be destroyed and the quest had gone off to much the same start as the book described.

 _Step on a butterfly and change the fate of the world, they say._ Beth mentally scoffed at the idea. _We’re not nearly as powerful as that._

‘None which concerns you at present.’ If anyone was still in doubt about Thráin’s feelings about their wizard, their doubts would melt like snow in the sun in the face of his rudeness. ‘You yourself claimed to have no wish to know the contents of this book. I would hold you to that now.’

Gandalf did not seem pleased. Aragorn, on the other hand, was more worried. There was another exchange of glances.

‘Soon,’ Thráin promised. Beth suspected it was a continuation of a conversation she had not been privy to.

It seemed enough for Aragorn at least. He gave the order to make camp, but to make sure to disturb the land as little as they could for fear of unfriendly eyes. They rested in a hollow in the land, but it offered very little in the way of shelter. The wind was cold, blowing down from the mountains.

Thráin gestured for Boromir and Beth to follow him a little way away from the main group and then sat them down.

_Here goes nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: an important conversation takes place.  
> Apologies for the long delay in updates. Turns out The Book is harder to write than The Journal. I have more characters to juggle here who are in different places at the same time. Basically, my timeline was a mess riddled with errors and that needed sorting out. I’ve got it more or less back on track.  
> So, I am going to resume Sunday updates. If for some reason I need to spend a little longer on a chapter, I’ll try to post a Duly Noted chapter instead. Next week is Duly Noted anyway, but the next The Book update will be on the 31st, so keep an eye out for that.  
> Thank you very much for reading! Reviews would be very, very much appreciated.


	24. Revelation

 

_Leaving Rivendell was something that every single inhabitant and visitor had come to witness. Once more it became clear to me how much relied on us and the success of our mission. And I was getting ever more conscious of my own role in it. Everyone had so much faith in me, it was a daunting thing. And it irked me that Boromir of all people had spoken of that trust in my abilities and the book I carried. In my opinion he should be the last one to rely on me that much. It was not something I felt I could tell him, since I did not know him well enough, but at least Thráin should have known better than to encourage him._

_Frodo appeared nervous and uncertain too, which was understandable. He was the Ringbearer, the de-facto leader of our little group. We would all follow where he would lead. With such a role comes a weight of expectation from one’s companions that can be a heavy burden to bear and Frodo carried the Ring as well._

_I didn’t feel its lure, as others did. To this day I am not sure if it was something in my blood, as Gandalf appeared to believe, or if it really was just a combination of common sense and a powerful object that didn’t want to bother with me. It might have been different if I had been its bearer, and I thank my lucky stars that I was not._

_Thráin, it seemed, could not be bothered about it either. His focus was elsewhere. I had started to learn that friendship was a bond almost as strong as the ones of kinship; once forged, there would be no breaking them. Over the past months I had seen him spend time with both Aragorn and Boromir, both of whom seemed to like him, if not each other. And especially the friendship with Boromir puzzled me, because by their own admission, they had not clapped eyes on each other for three whole decades before their reunion. One wouldn’t know it to look at them; they were as close as brothers._

_And I knew that the conversation with Boromir that Thráin had planned was imminent…_

Thráin measured the distance to the rest of the company and weighed the chances of that annoying elf listening in on a conversation not meant for his pointy ears. He didn’t think well of their chances, but didn’t dare venture away from the others any further. This land was not unknown to him and it was an unfriendly place even in summer, not welcoming to folk that walked on two legs and deadly to amateurs. Aragorn and Thráin both knew it well, but none of their companions did. Yet this was their road and this their camp. It would have to do for now.

‘I promised you we would speak when we left Rivendell,’ Thráin said to Boromir when they sat down. He took care to keep his voice down. It did not look like Thranduil’s son was eavesdropping, but it was hard to know for certain.

‘You did,’ Boromir agreed. ‘Your face tells me it’s a grave matter you wish to discuss. Is my land in peril? Is that what you would speak of?’

Gondor would be in more than its fair share of danger soon enough, but if he did not speak now, it would lose its best captain before it ever came that far. ‘No, your country is in no immediate danger yet,’ he said. He could see the tension melt out of his friend. ‘But I am afraid that you are.’

It did not rouse the kind of alarm from Boromir that he had hoped for. ‘My life is no great price to pay for victory in this war.’

This only confirmed Thráin’s theory that Boromir did not place a particularly great value on his own life. He had feared this many years ago, when Boromir had only been a young boy so very eager to go to war, to do his duty. Thráin hadn’t liked the Steward much then – there had been a very good reason he ended up with a broken nose – and he liked him even less now. To place all that responsibility on Boromir was cruel.

‘I know,’ he said, forcing his anger to the background. He could see that Beth’s eyebrows were all but up at her hairline. In the world she lived in, people must look on these things quite differently. But in this world, when war loomed large, warriors knew they would not all return home at the end of it. Such was the way of the world. ‘Though I would preserve it if I could.’

Boromir smiled. ‘I believe that is the reason why we are here meeting in all but secret, away from prying eyes and ears.’ He seemed amused.

Thráin was not. ‘You’ll recall the story I told during Elrond’s Council, about my father and the fate my mother’s book predicted for him.’

‘You spoke of a madness,’ Boromir said, a quizzical frown on his brow. He did not yet understand where Thráin was headed. He would soon enough.

‘Aye. My family is… susceptible to it. It took my great-grandfather and my grandfather.’ He would not usually share this and had anyone spoken of this madness to him, he would have made them give answer for it in blood. ‘According to my mother’s book, my father would have fallen prey to it as well. He would recover his senses at last, but then almost immediately fall in battle.’

‘Crime and punishment,’ Boromir understood.

Beth didn’t. ‘Excuse me? You think that’s… fair? Somehow?’ She very obviously did not agree.

‘It’s like it is in many tales,’ Boromir said. ‘At least among my people.’

‘And among mine,’ Thráin nodded.

The tale of Fryr and his companions sprang to mind as a good example. It told of a dwarf called Fryr and the dwarves under his command who were sent out to scout out the lair of a troll who had been terrorising the local population. When they arrived at their destination, they found the troll dead, but as they turned to leave, the cave was shut and they were trapped. Their only companion was a disembodied voice that whispered to them and killed them off one by one. And on and on it went until only three remained. Then the voice proclaimed that justice was done. The cave was unsealed and the remaining three dwarves, Fryr among them, were free to leave. When they returned home it became known that their fallen comrades had all committed grave crimes which had gone both unnoticed and unpunished during their lives. The Cave of Judgement had rectified this. The many scholars who studied the tale mostly agreed that the voice was the one of Mahal, punishing those of his children who would not abide by the rules he had set them.

It was perhaps fitting that in that tale one of Fryr’s companions had been a dwarf cursed with greed. He had died painfully for it. And in a way that was the fate that would have befallen Thráin’s father, if the book had had its way. What would happen to Boromir unless they stopped it was perhaps even worse, because it would not be greed. It would be one man desperately trying to get hold of one of the few things that could save his people. Of course, it promised power, but in his heart Boromir would never wish to use it to rule and oppress folk. Thráin knew him better than that. But it was hard to say what the Ring could make a fellow do.

‘I do not understand what this tale has to do with our meeting here today,’ Boromir admitted. He still had not connected the dots.

‘Because Beth’s book speaks of a similar fate for you.’ Thráin hated his own words, but they had to be spoken.

And he hated it even more when at last he saw the dawning of understanding on his friend’s face. ‘The Ring.’ His voice was barely above a whisper. In the pale early morning light his face was white as snow. ‘I would not…’

‘You would not be your own master.’ Thráin steeled himself and carried on. ‘It’s a madness, one that the Ring would create. I haven’t felt its power for myself, but I know it exists and that it is strong. I would prevent you falling under its spell. I would fight it with all the strength I possess. But to accomplish this, you need to know.’

The laugh that followed this was so devoid of humour that it chilled him to the bone. ‘That I would break all the vows I ever made? That I would fail those who put their faith in me, betray them even? I would deserve no less than death.’

That had not been what he meant.

Fortunately Beth spoke at last. ‘You wouldn’t do any of that, though.’ Her words made Boromir look at her. ‘Seriously, haven’t you listened? It wouldn’t happen if we prevented it. This book is not telling us what’s going to happen.’

‘Does it not?’ Boromir questioned. ‘At the Council, you as good as said so.’

Thráin shook his head. ‘It does not work like that. I have had the privilege to read my mother’s book and compare it to her own account of what happened that year. There are similarities to be sure, but there are notable differences also. And we make our own fortunes.’

Beth nodded. ‘What I think is that the book is an account of what will happen if we do not step in to change it.’

Boromir shook his head. ‘And you would contend with the power of the Ring? I thought I had seen the height of folly, but this…’ He looked like he wanted to get up and pace, too restless for calm conversation. ‘If this is what would become of me…’ He raised a hand to forestall the protest Thráin was on the verge of making. ‘If there is even the smallest chance that I could… lose myself to this, why did you ask me to come? I put my faith in you. Was that misplaced?’

The accusation stung.

‘No.’ But he could give a swift and honest answer. ‘If I believed you so weak, I would not have. You spoke of the strength of men, and I placed my faith in that.’

This temporarily stunned Boromir.

Good, it meant he was given the opportunity to explain. ‘You were not told the full story of my parents at the Council. It was neither the time nor place for that and most people do not need to know.’

The fact that his friend remained silent gave him hope.

‘My mother knew from the moment she met my father what might happen to him should she not interfere. After some time and several miscommunications between them, she finally persuaded him to read the book for himself, which he did.’ He recalled the pages they’d written about it, conjuring the memory until it was clear before his mind’s eye. He could ill afford mistakes now. And if he failed today, he doubted he would be given a second chance. ‘He was, as you are now, horrified, prepared to turn back and give the quest up as a lost cause. He didn’t, at my mother’s insistence.’

‘Then your father had more courage than I.’

Thráin shook his head. ‘Not courage, no. Faith, aye, he had that.’ He must have had to go on knowing what was ahead. ‘And determination, too. He said he would make his own future, that he would not abide by what some book told him would happen.’

‘From what I know, I think the awareness of the possibility helped him to arm himself against it, mentally.’ Beth looked pensive, as if she was trying hard to remember something. Possibly the letters. Thráin had quickly realised that his cousin appeared to know them inside out. ‘Logically speaking, the same would be true for you.’

That was more faith than she had thus far displayed in their mission.

‘It’s not all on your shoulders, Boromir.’ Thráin had no patience for inspiring speeches, mainly because he was shit at giving them. Duria was the one who was good with words in his family. Thráin understood actions better. But sometimes words were required to be the foundation of those actions. ‘Nobody would expect you to shoulder that burden by yourself.’

‘You cannot protect me from myself,’ Boromir pointed out.

Thráin held his gaze. ‘Watch me.’ For this he was prepared to put up a fight and he would not accept defeat. ‘I only know that my mother did not fail. Whatever strength of hers may run in my veins, it is yours to call upon. I will not see you fall. Nor will your people come to ruin as long as I still have a breath in my body. I would swear an oath to that if that should put your mind at rest.’

He could see Beth’s mouth fall open from the corner of his eye. If anything, she was shocked by the proceedings. Her world, it seemed, did not attach such value to bonds of friendship. Nor did its people appear to think much of loyalty. And while it was certainly true that Thráin did not commit to matters easily, especially not when it involved responsibility of one kind or another, he would make exceptions. He would always make them for his family and his friends.

Boromir on the other hand was clearly thinking about it. ‘And if you failed?’ he asked. ‘If you could not save me, would you strike me down where I stand rather than letting me betray those I am sworn to protect?’

‘ _What?_ ’ Beth forgot to keep the noise down. She looked from one to the other before finally settling on Thráin. The look in her eyes was murderous. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

He was unmoved. ‘An unfortunate choice of words, given the circumstances.’

His words in turn were chosen unwisely. He failed to calm her and only succeeded in riling her further. ‘This was _not_ the plan!’ she snarled. If he had closed his eyes he could almost have fooled himself into believing that his mother had returned from the dead to scold him for one of his foolish actions. Beth did not get her dander up easily, but her firm control over herself had at last slipped. There was fire beneath the surface, as he had suspected, but it had taken long to break out. ‘ _Save_ him, you said. I will not allow you to _kill_ him instead when things cease to go your way!’

He glared at her. ‘Keep your voice down before the Enemy hears you!’ he snapped at her. ‘I never said a word about killing anybody, least of all one I count as a friend.’ He was beyond annoyed that she could believe it of him.

‘Yet that is what I would wish you to do.’ Boromir was nothing if not persistent. ‘I would die before I fell under the Enemy’s spell.’

‘I know,’ Thráin said, because if their places were reversed, he would feel the same way. ‘Therefore I would fight you, knock you out and sit on you if need be, _if_ it ever came to that. I will not kill you. You may ask much of a friend, but never that.’ He held Boromir’s gaze. ‘If the worst should happen, that is the service I would perform for you. The book describes it as a passing madness, not a permanent affliction.’ He shook his head. ‘But I say this only ever as a worst case scenario. It will _not_ come to that.’

‘You have much faith in yourself,’ Boromir remarked wryly.

‘Not in myself,’ he disagreed. ‘I choose to place it in you. You are aware of what could have happened now. I believe you can arm yourself against it.’

‘If your faith should be misplaced…’

‘As I said, I will stop you before it is too late.’ He stood by those words. ‘But you are far more valuable to this world alive than dead. Ask Beth. She’s read the book.’

His cousin fortunately took this as her cue to speak. ‘It’s true. Your father would not respond… well to the news of your demise. In fact, his reaction would place your country in great danger.’

He couldn’t have put it better himself. Beth was more diplomatic in her words as well. Despite the love Boromir bore his father, Thráin had never thought well of him, and even less of the man’s treatment of his two sons. According to the book, Denethor had not changed much since the days Thráin had been an unwilling resident of his dungeon.

Boromir nodded curtly. ‘It appears my life and mind are in your hands.’

‘They are in your own hands.’ It would help if he thought better of himself, if he truly believed that this was not his doom, that it could, and would, be avoided. ‘And mine will be there to lend assistance, whenever you require it.’ 

‘And mine,’ Beth added softly. Her face spoke of confusion. Even when they spoke the same tongue, they did not always fully understand one another. In the days to come he could see that lead to misunderstandings more than once. She would have to adapt, and she would have to adapt very quickly.

‘I thank you both.’ The words sounded sincere enough. But Thráin could still hear the doubt. Only time could remedy that now, he feared.

‘If we are done here, I think I’ll go and sleep,’ Beth said, sensing that the conversation had reached its natural end. ‘Maybe I’ll sleep so deeply I’ll forget how cold I am. Sleep well.’

She took her leave of them before either had a chance to offer comment.

Boromir waited until she was out of earshot before he spoke again. ‘You did not answer one of my questions, friend.’

It was a relief to still be called that. For a moment he had feared the friendship lost. ‘What question?’ he asked. He did not think he had any left unanswered.

‘If this possibility exists, why did you ask me to come?’ Boromir asked. He seemed genuinely bewildered. ‘I joined at your request without question. Now allow me to ask the reason.’

This he could answer. ‘Because if you had not joined with us, you would have gone home. And your road would lead you too close to Isengard, where Saruman the traitor yet dwells. He would not leave you to your own business, I fear. After all, you are now deep inside our counsels. I cannot imagine he would not wish to learn what they were.’

‘I would not part with such information.’ Oh, there was the stubbornness Thráin had seen in him when he had been just a boy of ten proudly proclaiming he would hold the Enemy forces at bay.

‘And it would see you end in an early grave,’ Thráin pointed out. ‘For what it is worth, you are safer with us here than you could ever be on your own.’

Boromir considered this in silence and for a few moments Thráin feared that his reasoning was not enough to convince him, that he had gambled with their friendship and had lost it after all, despite that it was never his intention.

‘I apologise,’ Boromir said then. ‘I believed worse of you than I should have.’

Honesty dictated he made an apology of his own. ‘Only if you will accept mine,’ he replied. ‘I should have told you from the start. In failing to do so, I abused your trust and robbed you of your choice.’ And he liked to think he was better than the wizard, who had a nasty habit of doing exactly that. In hindsight, he had not done better and this shamed him.

To this Boromir actually laughed. ‘No, Thráin, you never did that. You merely asked for my company and I chose to provide it of my own free will, even when I knew you had not told me all.’

‘I will not do that again,’ he promised. ‘And you may hold me to that. Come, let’s re-join the others. I will see the first watch through.’

Boromir frowned. ‘Do you not need sleep?’

‘Not as much as you, nor as little as the elf.’ The wretched show-offs. ‘Rest, Boromir, and after some hours I will wake Gimli for the second watch. At least that way we’ll get some sleep; he’s quite the snorer, is he not?’

‘I suspect soon we’ll be too tired to take much notice,’ Boromir predicted.

Thráin feared he would be right.

* * *

 

 

 

It was a relief to break away from the main army and scout ahead, Jack found when he urged his horse into a gallop. It was never silent when there were dwarves nearby and he craved the silence sometimes. Flói and Elvaethor, his companions on this mission, fortunately understood this, so neither tried to fill the air with words. He had the feeling both had volunteered to look after him, but Jack ignored that for now. Truth be told, he would have wanted them for company if the choice had been his to make. Their volunteering saved him the need to ask.

‘The Easterlings are many miles away from us yet,’ Elvaethor said. He had scouted ahead before and so knew what he was talking about. ‘These lands should be safe.’

‘For now,’ Flói added. They had no illusions on that count.

‘And scouts have roamed these lands before,’ Jack reminded them. And as memory served, it had been Elvaethor who insisted on chasing after them. His friend’s wounds had all healed and few scars remained now to tell that tale, but it was a memory Jack found hard to forget.

‘And are likely to do so again,’ Elvaethor spoke calmly. Nobody knew how old he was exactly, but he had seen war before. Jack would be a fool not to trust his judgement and no matter what anyone said, he was no fool.

‘Hence why we are here,’ he replied. The last thing they wanted was for the Easterlings to locate them. What little surprise they had would be most welcome, for he did not doubt that they would be outnumbered. Even with the men and some of the elves on their side, not even with the troops Thorin Stonehelm had hurried to their aid with, they would not be close to being even.

Their scouts had reported that there were many Easterlings and that a great number of orcs from Mordor had joined their number. It was daunting, even for Jack, and he had never shied away from a fight. But this was bigger than a skirmish, bigger than that reckless rescue mission for Elvaethor. This time, the whole world would be at stake. He was well aware that the war fought in this region was only a small part, just one battleground in a much bigger war fought across all of Middle Earth.

And then there was his brother Thráin, who was currently at the heart of a mission to end it once and for all.

 _We cannot achieve victory by ourselves._ Glóin’s report from Rivendell had told him that much. _But we can hold out long enough to let others ensure the victory in our place._

He misliked that idea, that there was no hope of winning, only of delaying. Deep down he had known this for some time now. After all, he had paid attention to Síf when she taught him about Sauron’s fall the first time. He was one of the Maiar, right-hand man of Morgoth before the War of Wrath. Such a one could not be defeated through strength of arms.

_But there is no honour in retreat, nor in surrender._

For that simple reason he would fight as long as there was a breath in his body.

Elvaethor nodded. ‘Indeed.’ He had been exceedingly taciturn, something which was most unlike him.

‘Does something trouble you?’ Jack asked. Apart from the obvious, of course, but Elvaethor would know what he meant.

‘I cannot tell, Jack,’ Elvaethor answered. ‘But my mind is restless. I fear a threat is near, yet I do not possess the wits to find it yet.’

All these strange, undefined feelings were not things Jack particularly liked. They had no place among dwarves and had it been any other than Elvaethor uttering these words, Jack would have scorned them for it. But this particular elf was a dear friend and it would not be the first time one of these vague feelings of his would prove to be wholly justified. Elvaethor did not possess the gift of foresight as such – and Jack knew there were elves who had that gift – but he came close at times.

‘I am listening,’ he said.

Elvaethor shook his head ruefully. ‘I do not know that there is anything to listen to, my friend. Whatever this threat may be, I am currently unable to put my finger on it.’

‘Could it not just be the war that has unnerved you, Master Elf?’ Flói asked. ‘I would not think less of you if it were so,’ he hastened to add. ‘Why, I’m a little unsettled myself. After all, we are fighting the greatest war of this Age. Anybody should be a wee bit daunted.’

‘And if they are not, they are fools who do not understand what is at stake,’ Elvaethor agreed. ‘But I fear that is not the cause for my restlessness. I have not felt at ease these past two months and the feeling has yet to desist.’

Well, that was a feeling they shared. And Jack knew that it had kept Thoren awake for many a night as well. Cilmion was still languishing in the dungeons beneath the Mountain, and he had still not given up his secrets. Jack did not think he was likely to ever part with them. It could be that he knew nothing of use to tell them, that he had told the Enemy what he had discovered and had received nothing in return.

But Jack doubted this was entirely true. He’d been down there himself a few times. The elvish traitor could taunt with the best, got right under his skin in just a few seconds. It had taken Jack most of his self-control not to rip the abrasive elf limb from limb. If not for the bars that separated them, the effort might have been beyond him. But behind those taunts he could taste something, see something. It was the little smug voice, the almost triumphant twinkle in an eye that told him that there was something they did not know. Cilmion obviously knew and clearly it was potentially damaging to the allied forces.

‘Cilmion?’ he therefore asked.

‘I suspect that his treachery runs deeper than we know,’ Elvaethor admitted. ‘And with each mile we go further from Erebor, my concern deepens. I cannot tell why, but my heart tells me that we should not have left.’

That was something Jack did not feel. If anything, it was good that they were finally taking the fight to their foes. Waiting passively for a war to come to their doorstep reeked too much of cowardice. He’s sooner pick up sword and axe and ride out to meet the enemy. And after that he would swiftly dispatch them so they would trouble him no more.

Of course, he knew it would not be so simple this time.

‘Perhaps that is because Cilmion is there and even now that he has been dealt with, you fear what he might get up to,’ Jack suggested. Only a halfwit would feel comfortable turning his back on a traitor. None of them would ever think of themselves as such. ‘There are things he hasn’t told us, but I doubt they are of immediate importance.’

‘Makes my skin crawl just to think of him,’ Flói remarked. ‘But he’s well-guarded.’

‘It’s not his escape I dread,’ Elvaethor said.

The annoying thing about these funny feelings was that they could never quite pinpoint the root of the problem. Jack’s mother had always described it as a gut feeling, telling you something was amiss, but failing to explain what was, leaving a body guessing.

‘His knowledge then,’ Flói asked. ‘Something he hasn’t told us.’

Elvaethor nodded, almost hesitantly. ‘I think so, my friend.’

‘We’ll have to make do without it,’ Jack said. Nothing they could do about it now. If any harm was to be done, it likely had already happened.

‘That looks like tracks over there,’ Flói pointed, effectively ending the conversation.

He was right. And it was possibly only because they had been so focused on the conversation that they had not seen them sooner.

‘This was not one warrior,’ Elvaethor remarked as he dismounted to get a closer look. He needn’t have bothered speaking; Jack could see that and he would be the first to admit that Elvaethor was more skilled in reading the ground.

‘Many men passed through here,’ Elvaethor said. He frowned as he studied the ground a little more closely. ‘And not that long ago.’ He looked up at Jack and there was something akin to alarm in his face. ‘They were headed northwest.’

That would lead them a little north of Erebor. And none of their troops nor their allies had any business going there.

‘That makes no sense,’ Flói declared.

‘How many men?’ Jack asked at the same time.

Elvaethor answered him first. ‘It is hard to tell, but my best estimate would place their number around two hundred perhaps. Not many more nor many less.’

‘Easterlings then,’ Jack concluded. The only help his people could expect from the east would be dwarvish aid and Dáin had already sent his own son. No, no good would come from there before the end of this war.

‘It’s no great threat,’ Flói pointed out. ‘There’s nothing much north of Erebor and they can’t get in that way. The gate is at the south side of the Mountain. And two hundred men cannot do much harm to our defences.’

They couldn’t. Flói was being perfectly logical, but perhaps Jack had been spending too much time around his elvish friend, because there was a feeling in his gut that spoke of danger. ‘Then why come this way at all?’ he asked.

His two companions remained silent.

 _Nothing makes sense_ , he thought furiously. It made him feel like a halfwit that he couldn’t understand what was happening. He wasn’t usually slow. True, he did not have as much of a head for strategy as Dwalin for example, but he could keep up well enough.

‘The Enemy is cunning.’ Elvaethor’s frown had deepened. ‘He has employed it with great success before. It would be beyond foolish to assume that there is nothing these two hundred can do to our people.’

Jack was unlikely to make that mistake. Would that it provided him with an answer, though.

‘You mean to follow them?’ he asked.

‘What else can we do?’ Elvaethor replied. Clearly he thought that was a rhetorical question.

And for once Jack was in agreement. They had been sent out to scout ahead, to ensure the safe passage of their forces. And now some Easterlings had slipped past their patrols and were headed in the general direction of the Lonely Mountain. It was their duty to find out what had happened.

‘You will not go alone.’ He remembered only too well what had happened the last time. And there would be no time for the kind of rescue mission he had organised a few months back should Elvaethor meet with trouble. He could not in good conscience let him set out on his own again.

Flói had followed his train of thought. ‘I will go back and pass on the news to your brother.’

Elvaethor shook his head wryly. ‘Against two hundred just two will not stand,’ he said.

‘If two will not stand, you have no chance on your own,’ Jack pointed out reasonably. ‘And we attempt to find out their purpose. I did not suggest we engage them in combat.’

Thoren and Duria would never stop telling him that he was reckless. Perhaps he was, though he never went in without being fully aware of what he did. And he would never place anyone in danger on purpose. In fact, he was trying to achieve the opposite.

Elvaethor could not argue with that.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shall be glad of your company.’

Jack snorted. ‘It’s not my company you’ll require most.’ And as much as he would love to put his weapons to good use, he hoped there was no need for them just yet.

For if they did, death would not be far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Thoren and Tauriel find some common ground. The next chapter will be updated two weeks from now.  
> Thank you very much for reading. Reviews/feedback would be much appreciated. I always like to know what you think.


	25. Common Ground

 

_It was one thing to suffer through Thráin’s rigorous training, but it was something else to suffer through it when there was no bed at the end of the day. In fact, it was starting to become habit to get up at the end of the day. That was something else that I found hard to adjust to. I have always been a morning person. For years I had got up at six in the morning in order to go for a run. I loved daylight and now I had to go without._

_I understood the reasoning for these travel arrangements. We could move unseen in the darkness and then hide in the daylight just in case anybody was watching us. But my body was protesting the very idea of going nocturnal for several weeks. I was tired during the night and, at least for some days, far too awake during the day, despite the fact that I was weary to the bone._

_And I was exhausted. The terrain was uneven and treacherous. Traversing it in the dark certainly did not make our job easier. Aragorn and Thráin appeared right at home, though, and I don’t think anything could ever unsettle either Gandalf or Gimli. Legolas made all of us look clumsy by walking over the ground as though it was the easiest thing in the world. Boromir bore our trials without complaint, which was more than could be said for our hobbits. Frodo had undertaken some walking holidays, which he loved telling everybody else about, so he was holding out better than the other three. Merry and Pippin usually fell to the ground as soon as Aragorn gave the word that we had walked far enough for one day and then did not get up again. Sam battled on, but could not always stop his own grumbling, especially not about the lack of hot meals._

_Aragorn and Thráin had yet to reverse their decision about fire, so we were never entirely warm. The cold became our constant companion. It tensed our muscles and reduced all of us – with the possible exception of Gandalf and Legolas – to misery on legs._

_The first leg of our journey was draining and utterly depressing. And that was without taking watch duty into account…_

 

Beth did not know if she should be pleased or annoyed that she had been assigned first watch. Her body craved sleep. They had only had four marches so far, which brought the date up to the thirtieth of December. _New Year’s Eve tomorrow_ , she thought, but she had never felt in a less festive mood.

She had been spared watch duty so far. It would have vexed her more, this special treatment, were it not for the fact that she was already so tired all the bloody time. But then today, when Aragorn had finally told them they would sleep here and he had dealt out the watches, he had named Beth for the first one. She couldn’t even hold it against him, because he had taken the middle watch for himself.

The one thing that didn’t make this a complete failure from the start was that Thráin had told her what to do and what to expect. ‘It’s easy,’ he told her. ‘You keep awake and look for trouble. Usually there is none. If there is, you wake the rest of us and we will take charge from that point.’ Hearing it said like that made it sound easy.

And that part was simple enough, she had to admit. Staying awake on the other hand was far more difficult. It was hard enough to keep going on a full day’s sleep, but to have several hours shaved off of that was making her cranky. No doubt she’d be even more exhausted tomorrow. But everyone, even the hobbits, had been pulling their weight and she would not be the first to break.

It would have been nice if she could at least have watched the sunrise, but the sky was a stubborn grey and the clouds refused to part. _I wish I was home_. It was not the first time this thought had crossed her mind, but perhaps it was the first time she felt so strongly about it. If she was already exhausted now, how was she ever supposed to keep going and see this through to the end? What had Gandalf been thinking? She was so miserable, she even allowed herself a little self-pity. Her companions were sleeping and wouldn’t see and it wasn’t as if she could set Harry a bad example from the other side of the mountain range.

Beth allowed herself to wallow in it for a little while, then pulled herself together. _It won’t do to fall apart._ If she was broken that easily, she would never make it far. _I’ll have to toughen up, be stronger._ She had a feeling that if she didn’t, she would end up dead. And Beth Andrews wanted to live.

She looked around for any sign of trouble, but just as Thráin had predicted, there was nothing. If there had been the smallest chance that someone could attack them, Aragorn would not have given any of the watches to her. If he feared an attack, he would have divided the watches between any combination of Legolas, Thráin, Gimli, Gandalf and himself. Of course, it would have made sense to include Boromir in that selection, but for some reason the two of them did not get on. Beth wasn’t even sure they entirely trusted each other.

She reached for the _Lord of the Rings_ again without consciously making that decision. In the absence of any other guidance, it would have to do. It wasn’t reliable in the least. Beth had learned that lesson the hard way with the Council of Elrond. But she had nothing else to fall back on. _Beggars can’t be choosers._

She knew the text quite well by now. So did Thráin, though he still insisted her knowledge trumped his. And she had been thinking these past few nights. There wasn’t a whole lot else to do, especially since most agreed it would be best to keep conversation to a bare minimum.

She knew that Thráin’s immediate focus was on Boromir more than the quest in general, but hers was not. Gandalf had been on her mind a lot lately. When they came to Moria, he would fall. It would be for the best if he did, so he could come back stronger and take on Saruman. Thráin had argued for that approach and Beth had found it hard to disagree.

 _But shouldn’t he be told?_ It seemed fair. At least if he knew, he could make his own choice. After all, it was his life. What right did they have to play God?

_What am I doing here? There is no ending that needs to be changed. It will all work out without my interfering. I can only make it worse._

She recalled Kate’s words. _This job doesn’t come with a manual and there were times I would have given my right hand for some decent advice or just a chat with someone who knew what it was like._ Beth could do with a conversation with Kate’s ghost by now. Of course she could talk to Thráin, but he didn’t exactly know what she was going through. He viewed the world in black and white, certainly didn’t like to complicate things. He decided on a course of action and followed it. And from the look of him, he clearly wasn’t losing any sleep over it.

Her gaze fell on Boromir, who occupied the spot next to her cousin and she amended her earlier statement. No, there was some good she might do, if she was even able to pull it off. But that was only one life saved. It wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things.

She opened the book and found Boromir’s death scene. _Pierced with many black-feathered arrows_ , it read. _Many orcs lay slain, all about him and at his feet._ She hadn’t seen him in a fight, but he must be formidable to achieve that, if the book was right about this. And it was only because he was shot from a distance that he would fall at all. Clearly orcs were no match for him in single combat.

She looked at him again, feeling marginally less uncomfortable about doing so now that he was asleep. Despite her conversation with Kate, she found it hard to look at him. Maybe because she was not all that certain they could save both his sanity and his life, Beth couldn’t really tell. And it was hard looking at one who was going to die.

Some years ago, her mother’s mother had died of cancer. They had known months in advance how bad it was, that there was no hope for recovery, because the illness had progressed too far. Beth had experienced the same feeling then. She hadn’t known what to say, how to behave. So Beth had avoided her, and so much had been left unsaid. She’d felt bad about that even at the time, but if she could go back now and change it, she didn’t know if she could.

 _Well, you’re an Andrews and the whole sorry lot of us are absolutely rubbish at being vulnerable. All of us in slightly different ways, but you certainly didn’t escape it_ , Kate had told her. It vexed Beth that she was right. The longer she was here, the more she realised that Kate was right about a lot of things.

When she looked up again, it was to find that Boromir had woken up and abandoned his bedroll in favour of coming to keep her company.

‘Morning,’ she said. That was the kind of neutral and polite thing to say. If she was going to do this, she might as well learn how to actually communicate with him without coming across as a simpleton. Lord knows what he must have made of her behaviour so far, but she doubted she had made a favourable impression. ‘I thought you didn’t have watch tonight.’ She was supposed to wake Aragorn, who would keep watch until it was Sam’s turn. Boromir was fully entitled to a full day’s rest.

‘Sleep has eluded me these past few days,’ he replied.

Beth felt more than just a little guilty about that, as she could hazard an educated guess as to the source of this insomnia. While it may have slipped her mind what would happen to him if the book had its way, he was unlikely to be so blessed. _We took his peace of mind_ , she knew. The worst thing about it was that Boromir wasn’t even angry. Or if he was, he was an actor worthy of an Oscar.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, because what else was she supposed to say?

He shook his head. ‘No, you’ve done me a favour,’ he insisted.

 _If it works_ , she meant to say, but she kept quiet. Thráin was the one with confidence in this mad venture, not Beth.

She did not know how to reply to that, so she didn’t. Truth was, she hadn’t had a conversation with him unaccompanied since the night he arrived in Rivendell. Usually Thráin or somebody else was present to diffuse any tension that may arise. But everybody was asleep now and she would not wake them just so that she could feel more at ease. That was not how that worked.

It took her a while to notice, mainly because she was trying not to look at him, but when she did steal a glance in his direction, she realised she had been stupid. The book was still open on her lap, open on the scene of his death. From the look on his face, he had just read it.

 _Bloody hell_. She closed the book. In the silence the sound was as loud as a gunshot.

‘Sorry,’ she offered.

He was quiet for a minute. It was a silence she did not know how to read.

‘It is… disconcerting,’ he said at last.

That was not the word Beth would have chosen. If she had been in his shoes, she would have been terrified. She would have turned around and run all the way back to Rivendell. There were already times that she came this close to doing exactly that. After all, her own survival was not guaranteed. But Boromir’s end was already written, as close to a certainty as it was going to get. And still here he was.

‘It can’t be easy, reading about your own death.’ The words sounded awkward even to her own ears.

The answer was immediate. ‘My death does not frighten me. It’s a risk, one that we all must take.’ He considered this and then corrected himself: ‘One that we all take by merely being alive today.’

As if she needed reminding.

‘It can be avoided,’ Beth said. ‘Now that we know the how and where.’ And the why, if she chose to believe in that. The Boromir in the book had thought about it like that as well. _I tried to take the Ring from Frodo. I am sorry. I have paid._ The real one had gone as far as to say he deserved no less than that if he erred that much. This whole world confounded her and not in a good way. Why would someone need to pay with his life for making one mistake, especially since it could be argued he wasn’t in his right mind when he made it? But it was in the _Lord of the Rings_ and it was in _The Hobbit_. And Thráin and Boromir had both spoken of it as a matter of fact.

‘Thráin has faith in that,’ Boromir agreed. ‘Yet you seem hesitant.’

Well, he was observant if nothing else. ‘Thráin knows you better than I,’ she replied. It might be that this acquaintance was the cause of his confidence. Beth had suspected him of being blinded by friendship, but that didn’t mean it was necessarily true. ‘I hardly know you.’ And reading about a character in a book was no substitute for knowing the person that character was based on.

 _If that is how it works_.

Kate had never figured out how it was possible that Tolkien had known about Middle Earth and about events that would take place in the future, or a version of those events anyway. Stuck as she was here, Beth was sure she wouldn’t find an answer either. _Maybe, when I come back home, that would make a good research project_ , she thought.

 _If I ever make it home again_.

‘In some ways you know more about me than I know about myself,’ he pointed out. The tone was verging on bitter, though he clearly had aimed for wry.

Beth shook her head. ‘That’s not really right,’ she said, searching for an explanation that would make sense to him. ‘The book is not always right.’

In Kate’s case, sometimes the book was and sometimes the movie had the right events. There even had been times when the two had collided. And at least Kate had been aware of the movies, well the one _Hobbit_ movie that existed at the time. Beth could claim no such knowledge of the _Lord of the Rings_ movies. How was she supposed to discern between book and movie and whatever the hell happened that wasn’t recorded in either?

Predictably, Boromir did not understand. ‘How so?’ he asked.

Beth took a deep breath. ‘Where I come from, there are two versions of this story,’ she began. She might as well start off with the easy part. ‘There’s this book, which is the source material and then there are movies.’ She saw that this word meant nothing to him, as she knew it would and explained before he could ask. ‘Think of it as a play in a theatre,’ she suggested. It wasn’t quite like that, but it was something he could at the very least understand. ‘It’s based on the book, but some things are a little different.’ She checked to see if he was still following her, which he was. ‘From what I know of Kate, in her time sometimes the events in the book took place one time, then the events from the movie another. Or both happened simultaneously. And other times none of them happened and it all turned out different. Or things did happen, but for different reasons altogether. It’s hard to make sense of.’

Just explaining it was giving her a headache.

Boromir pondered this and then nodded. ‘I see. This causes your confusion then?’

Partly. Beth did not really feel like sharing her doubts, not if hers might cause him to have them as well. One thing she did know was that making him waver was not going to do anyone any favours, Boromir least of all. _And I don’t want his death on my conscience._

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘So, you see, I really don’t know much about you at all.’

It was better that she steered this conversation back to calmer waters. The book was her headache, and Thráin’s. Despite Boromir’s very obvious good intentions, she did not entirely trust him with it. He was biased, had a focus on his own land. It was very natural, but it would influence whatever input he had to offer. As it was, he had already seen too much.

‘Indeed.’ Boromir clearly was having none of it.

This was like it had been with Thráin a little, Beth guessed, a trust exercise of some kind, a getting-to-know-you game. But she was fairly certain Boromir already trusted her, reluctantly maybe, but there was trust all the same. He had even said as much at the Council.

‘All right, ask away then,’ she said. Having a bonding session during watch was not what she had in mind, but Boromir did have a point. She already knew a lot about him, including his biggest weakness, while he knew next to nothing about her. ‘If we are going to even the scales a bit.’

He actually had the nerve to laugh, not something she had seen him do before, unless he was hanging around Thráin. ‘I would not know where to begin,’ he admitted. ‘I gather that your world and mine differ greatly and I doubt I would fully comprehend your answers.’

‘Things get lost in translation,’ Beth agreed. Even when they spoke the same language, the meaning was so different at times. They looked at the same things in different ways and it was hard making the other party understand even a little.

Boromir nodded. ‘They do, I fear.’

Well, some of the views he held were positively medieval. She would not really want to understand them anyway.

‘Just let me know if you’ve thought of something to ask then.’ Beth was not going to volunteer information of her own volition. It came with the job of being rubbish at being vulnerable, she imagined.

He nodded a little too seriously at that, in a way that suggested he would revisit the subject. Beth regretted the offer already. ‘I will see this watch through to its end,’ he suggested. ‘There is no sense in both of us being awake.’

Beth shrugged. She felt a little more alert after their chat, so she should be able to complete it herself. ‘You could have another go at sleep,’ she countered. ‘It might work out this time.’

He shook his head. ‘Later perhaps. Rest, Beth. I shall wake Aragorn when the time comes.’ Though it was phrased as a kind suggestion, she heard the command behind it. Right, he commanded armies back in Gondor; he was used to people obeying his orders.

‘Okay.’ She stuck the book back in her bag. ‘Good watch, Boromir.’

She returned to her cold bedroll and curled up in it. It offered only a little protection from the bitter cold east wind. She would sleep all the same. The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes was Boromir keeping a watchful eye over their little company.

* * *

 

  

‘We have been cursed with the most reckless brothers in all the world,’ Thoren fumed when Flói had taken his leave.

Tauriel did not follow this far too true statement up with a confirmation of any kind, but her eyes betrayed that she did not disagree. It was getting ridiculous. Thoren knew that his youngest brother could make rash decisions, but he was taking that to whole new levels of late. What had he been thinking, tracking a group of about two hundred Easterlings with just Elvaethor at his side?

Well, he suspected he knew a little, because if anything, Elvaethor was worse. He would have gone alone if it hadn’t been for Jack’s quick volunteering. And Thoren had seen what had happened the last time his elvish friend had ventured into danger unaccompanied.

‘It is to late too stop them now,’ Tauriel said. ‘We must ask ourselves what the Easterlings are plotting.’ On the outside she appeared calm, but that could just be a mask. It was so hard to tell with elves; their faces were not as expressive as men’s or dwarves’.

Nevertheless, she had a point. He could chew Jack out over his bloody recklessness when he returned – _if he returns at all_ , a little voice whispered maliciously at the back of his mind – but even if he left now on the fastest mount available, he would not catch him up. The best thing he could do was work out what the Easterlings hoped to achieve with so small a number. The only way into Erebor was through the gate at the south side of the Mountain and they would find Dale an easier target. What they hoped to achieve by passing north of Erebor was a mystery he could not yet solve.

‘There is nothing for them in that direction,’ he said. ‘They might make for Mount Gundabad, but I could not see the reason for that.’

Well, he could, if the purpose was to meet up with the orcs lurking there. Thoren had initially thought that perhaps they would be lucky enough to avoid having those involved in this coming war, but he had soon realised his mistake. Every place where orcs usually dwelled was emptying, answering Mordor’s call. He did not know what hold Sauron had over them, whether it was a magical control or just the lure of darkness that the orcs could not resist. Either way, it hardly mattered. The only thing he needed to concern himself with was that they were coming and that they had to be fought wherever they were encountered.

 _And perhaps we can stand long enough for my brother and his friends to end this war for good._ Thráin’s note had been enlightening. And whereas Jack’s face had darkened at the news that they could never hope for victory on their own, Thoren found it almost a relief. He had known long before then that the odds were against them, that it would be almost impossible to come out victorious on the other end of this. He would attempt it, because no dwarf worth his beard would ever admit defeat before the battle had even been fought, but the end was already written, no matter what they did.

Thráin had offered him the hope that while this was still more or less true, there was a chance to outlast this war. He may not achieve victory when it had the meaning of bringing about Sauron’s defeat, but he may yet strive for victory when it meant outlasting Sauron until others had destroyed him. He could live with that.

‘They may attempt to forge an alliance with the orcs there,’ Tauriel said, whose thoughts had clearly followed the same path.

‘Would they not have done so months ago?’ The timing was not right.

‘I would have thought so. I must admit this is a course of action that I do not know how to interpret.’ There was the smallest hint of frustration on her face.

And it was remarkable that she even allowed him to see that, because elves did not like to admit that they did not know something, especially not to dwarves. It was one of the reasons why Thoren was grateful Thranduil had appointed her as the head of the elvish troops he had sent to Erebor. He would not soon call her a friend, but she was sympathetic and they had a common friend in Elvaethor.

‘Nor I.’ It was the simple truth and he owed it to her to speak it.

‘It must needs remain a mystery for the time being,’ she concluded. ‘And we can only hope that our brothers will discover the truth of it.’ There was an almost sarcastic half-smile on her face. She was not pleased in the least either. And so soon after the attack on Elvaethor, why should she be?

And Cilmion had not stopped worrying Thoren any less than he had two months ago. There was something he knew, he was certain of it. _He is biding his time, holding his silence long enough for some devious plan of the Enemy to come to fruition._

Loud cries from outside drew his attention away from his ponderings. There was alarm in them and fright.

 _We are under attack._ Nothing else could justify the sounds.

Beside him Tauriel had reached the same conclusion just a moment earlier; she was running outside, sword in hand. Thoren followed in her wake and emerged into chaos. Men, elves and dwarves alike were getting up and crawling out of tents, weapons in hand, looking for a threat that they could not see yet.

Thoren forced the panic down and cast a quick look around, finding the disturbance to the east and fast approaching.

 _They took a leaf out of Jack’s book_ , he realised as men on horseback galloped into the camp, swords unsheathed, some of them carrying flaming torches. _They mean to do the same to us. And we never saw them coming. Where are the guards?_

There was no time to ponder this. The enemy was upon them and all thought had to give way to battle instinct. He leaped forward and struck at the legs of the horse nearest to him. He had a natural affinity for the animals in general, but could not afford to think on them now. The horse went down, its rider sent flying. Thoren left him; there were enough folk behind him who would take care of him if the fall had not already killed him.

He ran forward, ducked under a blow that otherwise would have taken his head off and struck at the horse of the rider that came after. It was the one time when being taller would have come in handy; on horseback the men towered over him and his sword could not reach them where he could kill them. True, blows aimed at their feet and legs could incapacitate them, but that was not his intent in fighting them. But he could force them to come down to his level, where he could fight them.

He repeated the treatment and was glad to realise that this difference in height worked in his favour as well, for the men found it hard to reach him and their blows were more easily avoided. Thoren could go underneath their horses and slice open their bellies. The horse would die and its rider was forced to come down.

The air was filled with screams of the dying beasts and the smell of blood was everywhere. Thoren did not stop to take much notice. He had seen the first Easterling on foot and lunged forward to meet him.

The man was tall, even for one of his race, and heavily armed. Still, every dwarf was worth at least four men and Thoren had been trained since he was old enough to hold a blade. _If you cannot lead in battle, in the gravest danger, you are unworthy to sit on the throne of Erebor._ His father’s words had sounded harsh at the time, but they were true. If he was unwilling to take the same risks his people took, by what right would be call himself their king?

He felt more than that he saw that there was someone behind him, someone who was on his side and that he could trust to have his back. It was nothing but instinct, but all he had to rely on now. Looking back would give his opponent enough time to kill him.

The Easterling attempted to take his head. It took hardly any effort to duck under the blow – men were far too used to have to aim higher for this manoeuvre and despite their training, they had probably not faced many dwarves in battle, if any – and then he struck a blow of his own. His foe did not have sufficient time to defend himself, a mistake which cost him his life.

Time lost all meaning. Thoren parried, struck, ducked and stabbed, all the while conscious of the shadow at his back. His best guess was that it was Tauriel. No dwarf would move that quietly and no other elf would even wish to see him safe.

His theory was confirmed when at last he had opportunity to turn around. The Easterlings were everywhere now and one threw a knife over Thoren’s head. He did not think, but barrelled into her. A warning would have come too late. She went down, the knife sailed overhead and embedded itself in another Easterling.

There was no time for interaction. Thoren just waited long enough to make sure that Tauriel was back on her feet and fighting before he threw himself back into the fray.

It was impossible to tell how long the fight lasted. It always was. But it had been dusk when Flói made his report and by the time the last Easterling fell under his blade the sky was dark and the stars were out. Around him the flames of the fires the enemy had started cast the camp in a flickering light. There were dead bodies all around him, but he was pleased to find that most of them did not belong to his people or his allies. There was carnage and there was chaos, but it could not hold a candle to the destruction Jack had wrought on their camp some months ago.

 _We were surprised, but not unprepared._ There was the truth of it.

‘A victory, cousin!’ Thorin Stonehelm cried to him from some distance. He was normally not one for whispering, but Thoren suspected he had raised his voice on purpose so their people might hear.

He managed a smile. ‘Victory indeed!’ It appeared as though their foes had not made it far into the camp before their advance had been brought to a sudden and violent halt. Even so there were dead to mourn. The enemy had made it clear that they would fight this war by any means necessary.

 _We should take heed of the lesson they taught us today_ , he thought grimly. _Nowhere is safe. They can strike anytime and from anywhere._

Yet he knew something they did not. While they would be occupied with their war, somewhere hidden from their sight a small company marched to bring about their downfall. _Be safe, brother. Maker keep you_. They would both fight for their people, albeit in different ways.

Folk around him took up the cry of victory, restoring hope to their fellows. It would do them no good if their courage abandoned them now. They had barely started and Thoren intended to bring down the enemy numbers before he retreated to the safety of Erebor. From within the Lonely Mountain they could keep the enemy out almost indefinitely, provided they hadn’t managed to get their hands on a dragon.

Tauriel stepped into his line of sight. She had a bloody scratch on her left arm, but appeared otherwise unharmed. Well, that was one person accounted for among the many whose wellbeing he still had to confirm.

‘I owe you my life.’ The words were formal, but Thoren suspected that the sentiment was not. It was only because he knew her brother that he was able to tell at all, but fortunately he had that advantage.

But he could not in good conscience accept her thanks without pointing out why they were quite unnecessary. ‘I would have done the same for anyone.’ Well, as long as they were on the same side that he was in the fight. ‘And I suspect you did the same for me during the battle.’ He had not forgotten that she had been behind him all that time, that she had his back. It was a service he had not expected from any other elf than Elvaethor. And it was commonly known that he was thought of as odd among his kindred.

‘I would spare my brother the grief of another loss,’ she said. Like Thoren, she must know what the death of the late King and Queen under the Mountain had done to him. It had been a grief so deep that Thoren could not look at him at times. The shadow had lifted a little these past few years, and more so after his vow, but Thoren would prevent seeing it envelop him again so soon on his account.

‘As would I,’ he returned. ‘As I understand, Elvaethor does not have many friends left among his own kin. I would hate to see him lose one of them.’ And Tauriel really wasn’t all bad. If anything, she was starting to border on being a true friend. Thoren had not forgotten what she had done during those dark days when his sisters had disappeared. He owed her much more than just his life.

She smiled, a full smile that reached her eyes. ‘It seems we have something in common then.’

They did. ‘I did not think to expect it,’ he said, because prior to this year, striking up a friendship with any other elf than Elvaethor – and Aunt Thora had rightly pointed out that he was not much of an elf in nature anyway – would have sounded like a hallucination brought on by too much wine. ‘I would call you friend, with your permission.’

He had taken her by surprise; her left eyebrow jumped up. It was brought to heel soon after, but not before Thoren had witnessed it. ‘This is unexpected,’ she said.

‘But not undeserved,’ Thoren insisted.

‘There has long been strife between your people and mine.’

It did not sound as a rejection, more as an observation. Thoren could tell she did not understand. And the fact that she spoke of it like this was testimony enough that she also knew that Elvaethor had never been quite like the other elves. But Tauriel was. There was something in her very way of being that was entirely other, difficult to grasp and more difficult to understand. Yet despite all that, he had first come to respect her and then, after Cilmion’s betrayal, to genuinely like her.

‘You are not your king,’ Thoren reminded her brusquely. Thranduil would be more than happy to continue holding grudges once the war was done. ‘And whatever wrong my ancestors may have done your people, I am not them.’ He still thought the elves were rather in the wrong, but to let such ancient feuds divide them now would be the downfall of them all. He could not afford to dwell on past wrongs when it would cost him his people’s futures. ‘We ought to bury the past.’

Tauriel nodded. ‘Then I should be honoured to call you friend,’ she replied.

In these dark times, those words warmed his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time we’ll check back in with Elvaethor and Jack. That chapter will be uploaded on the 28th. In the meantime, keep an eye on Duly Noted. There’ll be a chapter on the 21st and another on the 25th, to mark the five year anniversary of this series.  
> Thank you very much for reading. Reviews would be much appreciated!


	26. Under Cover of Darkness

 

_Thráin had tried to console himself by repeating that his homeland was not in any danger yet, because that was what the book told him. I could tell that he could not really believe it, but at the same time also saw the sense of it. Sauron was meant to unleash everything he had at the same time on the world at large, to strike swift and hard and so break all the resistance._

_That was how it was supposed to go._

_However, the danger was far greater than Thráin had thought or could even guess at. And it is in this that one can see just how big a tidal wave Kate Andrews had created, though I will readily admit that she created it without knowing it. Had Dáin been King under the Mountain, he would have weighed the words from Sauron’s messenger. He would have played for time. In doing so he would annoy Sauron, but not call his wrath over himself and his people until Sauron was good and ready to. He would no more have betrayed Bilbo Baggins to the Enemy than Thoren would, but he would have been more cautious._

_Thoren was not. The friendship with Bilbo was closer and so the messenger’s words did not merely worry him. They angered him. This of course led to the outright defiance at the gates. I do not think anyone had defied Sauron quite in such a frank and public manner for an age. It must have enraged him. And even if it didn’t, he could not be seen to let it slide. The natural answer in his eyes must have been to squash such resistance fast, lest others might get the same ideas. Some are now calling Sauron’s decision to strike at the north prematurely foolish and irrational, but I would like to disagree. It was anything but foolish, and I don’t think he felt he had a choice._

_So war came to the Free Folk east of the Misty Mountains months before it was scheduled to happen and it hit harder than it would have had Dáin been King under the Mountain. Yet it would later become apparent that this too had consequences…_

 

‘We are gaining on them.’ Elvaethor’s report was short and to the point.

Jack did not need more. He scarcely waited until Elvaethor had mounted again before he spurred his own horse on. They had been on the trail of the Easterlings for some days now. They were gaining ground, but slowly; their foes moved fast. Even though the tracks told them that none were on horseback, they moved at speed. And this worried Jack, because to be able to move so swiftly, they must know what they were doing. This in turn meant that they were familiar with the area. They must have scouted this region and have scouted it well.

_And we never knew, for all our patrols._

‘We are not far from Erebor,’ he observed, another thing that was cause for concern. These past few days their path had led them north and then west again. They were going around the Lonely Mountain, far around. Jack had started to suspect that the enemy’s destination was Mount Gundabad, to meet up with the orcs that assembled there. That theory had been viable up until this morning, when their path had turned south.

Elvaethor shook his head. ‘But the gate is well-guarded. And so is Dale. What purpose could so small a number have?’

‘You would know more of warfare than I,’ Jack pointed out. He was reasonably sure that Elvaethor was old enough to remember a sizeable chunk of the First Age, if not most of it. He most certainly had been around the last time the Free Peoples had made war on Sauron. Whatever tactics the Enemy employed, Elvaethor would have seen them before. ‘And you have faced this foe before,’ he added.

Elvaethor’s face turned pensive. ‘It brings me no joy to remember those days,’ he said. ‘For the war was long and many were lost.’

‘But the war was won,’ Jack argued. In the end only that mattered.

Elvaethor smiled ruefully. ‘Was it?’ he asked.

Jack supposed that maybe the elf was right. After all, if it had been a true victory, Sauron would not now be alive to trouble the world once more. But that Last Alliance had bought the world three millennia of time to recover, to regain strength and to face the threat head-on and end it.

Jack only wished it could be achieved through strength of arms.

He must have spoken of this desire out loud without noticing. It was either that or Elvaethor truly was a mind reader. ‘Our swords may do much good here,’ he said. ‘We will delay the Enemy and draw his ire. That will make him blind to what takes place in secret. And he will not think to look for your brother and his companions.’

There was sense in those words. This course of action would place his home in danger, but that would have been the case either way. Thoren could not in good conscience have given a different answer to the messenger and thus he had sealed their fates, whatever those fates may be.

‘Perhaps,’ he allowed.

They rode on in silence for a while, making use of the light for as long as it lasted. The days were short still and so they had to make every hour count. The sun was near the horizon already and still there was no sight of their quarry.

‘We will need to make camp soon,’ Elvaethor said.

‘The light will last a little longer,’ Jack replied. To stop now might undo all the progress they had made this day. The Easterlings did not rest long and until they were caught up, Jack had every intention of doing likewise.

‘Our horses need tending,’ Elvaethor countered. ‘We have pushed them hard. They do not have the endurance of your people, my friend.’

‘Neither do I,’ Jack reminded him, suddenly cross. His body was, as usual, quick to remind him that he only had a little of the endurance his people were known for. His mannish blood watered down the strength of the dwarves, making him stand out once more. If any of these mannish traits could have been used as advantages, he might not have minded so much, but men were in every way inferior to dwarves as far as Jack knew.

Had Flói been here, he would have diffused the sudden tension with a well-chosen remark, but his constant friend and companion had been absent these past few days. It was a necessary absence, but Jack felt it keenly. Elvaethor was many things, but attuned to Jack’s moods he was not.

Even so, he made a brave effort. ‘Yet you possess more strength than you know.’

Jack doubted it, but kept his silence. Elvaethor had made a good point about the horses and stopping was the best thing for them. He hated having to abandon the chase for some hours, but there was nothing else for it.

‘How do they move so fast?’ he wondered. Even with the benefit of knowing the terrain, there were limits to how much ground a man could cover in a day.

‘The Enemy has many tricks up his sleeve, many of them magical in nature,’ the elf replied. ‘And one should not underestimate the hold he has over his servants.’

‘Magic too?’ Jack asked. He could scarcely imagine that anyone in possession of their wits should serve such a vile master voluntarily.

‘That too.’ Elvaethor nodded. ‘And the lure of the darkness. Many are drawn to it. Some think it may bring them power, others dream of riches. Some folk are tricked. He was called the Deceiver, for that is what he is. And wiser folk than you and I have fallen for his promises, empty though they were.’

Jack couldn’t see how anyone could believe a word that fell from Sauron’s lips, either then or now.

‘But his servants can be defeated and slain,’ he observed. ‘Even if he cannot.’

Elvaethor’s green eyes usually twinkled and smiled. Now they were just very, very old and sad. ‘Yes,’ he spoke at last. ‘Yes, they can.’

‘You were there, weren’t you? That last great battle?’ A little voice told Jack that he was prying into affairs that were none of his business. He paid it no heed.

‘The Battle of Dagorlad, as they called it afterwards,’ Elvaethor said, which was as good as a confirmation. ‘The forces of Mordor were defeated, though the war was not won, not for another seven long years.’

Let it not be said that Jack had not paid attention during his history lessons. ‘The siege of Barad-dûr,’ he nodded. He had always imagined that siege to be a rather dull sort of affair. What was one even supposed to do during seven years of camping on Sauron’s very doorstep?

‘The very one,’ Elvaethor nodded. ‘There were horrors beyond imagining in that land then, and I have little reason to believe it will be different now. Many of my kin were slain, either in battle before its gates, or during the long siege that followed it.’

That gave Jack pause for some time. He never spent much time thinking about Elvaethor’s kin beyond a general acknowledgement that there must be some. After all, Elvaethor had a sister. It stood to reason that they had parents. Or at the very least, they’d had them at some point in the past. He liked to think that if they yet lived, they would have come up in conversation before.

Even Thoren, not the best with words on a good day, might have found some words of comfort. But Jack had not been blessed with that gift and so he only commented: ‘That is the way of it in war.’ He cursed his own ill-advised remark the moment it left his mouth, but he could not take it back.

And so conversation died. There was no fire as to not alert any Easterling or enemy ally who may be watching. As a result, their meal was cold and cheerless. The winter had tightened its grip on the land in the past few weeks and Jack felt the cold sink deep into his bones, yet another cruel reminder that he was not much like his siblings and his other kin, who were far less troubled by such matters.

_Why out of all of them did I have to be made as so much less?_

It was the thought he fell asleep to and woke up with. Elvaethor was already saddling the horses when he rose. Whether or not he had in fact gone to sleep was anyone’s guess. He had still been awake when Jack closed his eyes.

They were back on the road in minutes, silence still reigning supreme. Jack had the unpleasant feeling that the blame for that could be laid at his door. He’d pried, had torn open old wounds and then had rubbed salt into them by speaking before he thought it through. He felt that perhaps an apology was in order, but if he brought it up now, Elvaethor would almost certainly wave it off and tell him that it was nothing.

They both knew that would not be true.

The sky was a stubborn dark grey, the kind that spoke of snowfall in the near future. Jack sincerely hoped it would not come for a while, for they would lose sight of the trail. And even Elvaethor with his sharp sight was unable to see through snow, even though he walked over it as though it was a solid path.

‘Snow on the air,’ he observed.

Elvaethor nodded. ‘I fear so.’

Those were the first words he had spoken all day. Jack took that as a good sign. ‘You spoke of a feeling, a sense of foreboding some days ago,’ he recalled. ‘Has it eased at all now that we are so near Erebor?’ Logic dictated that it should. If every mile they moved away from the Mountain should worsen it, then every step they came closer should ease it.

His friend shook his head. ‘No.’ The word was spoken so softly that Jack almost missed it. ‘It has grown worse, my friend.’

The Easterlings then. Even though he couldn’t think of what they could possibly be up to, there was no question that they were up to some sort of mischief. But what?

Part of that question was about to answered; Elvaethor suddenly halted and dismounted.

‘There was another group.’ He was being uncharacteristically brusque, something he must have learned from his chosen people. He moved a little further away and crouched again. ‘And another.’ He looked around and seemed to be counting.

Jack was no great talent in this area, but even he could see that the frozen ground had been disturbed by a great many feet.

‘Another six groups of similar numbers met the one we were tracking.’ Elvaethor reached a conclusion much sooner than Jack could have.

The words froze what little warmth still remained in his body. It did not take a great genius to understand that there had to be a reason such stealth had been employed. Such a force did not have the capacity to breach the Mountain’s defences, but still.

_We are not seeing something. And I fear it’s something we ought to have seen a long time ago. Are we so blind?_

His frustration was building rapidly and he wanted to take it out on something, preferably something with an Easterling face. At least violence was simple. Nothing about the present situation was. Tracking down Cilmion had been easy in comparison. And even there Flói had done most of the work. At least in this he was like his father’s people, small consolation though it was.

‘How long ago?’ he asked. It was the only sensible question to be asked, the only question Elvaethor could answer at the moment.

‘Hours,’ the elf replied. ‘Two, three at most.’

Well, that was something. _Even so, if we catch them up, what difference will the two of us make?_ But there was no real option. To abandon the chase would be wrong. And he would readily risk his life if it should aid his people, unlike them though he was.

 _It is my curse_ , he reflected. _To be so unlike them and to yet long to belong to them. I must be a fool._ But he did not know any other way to be and this was his place in the world.

Elvaethor got back on his horse and spurred it on. The look on his face was troubled and it was not a comforting thing to witness. He usually was in firm control of both himself and the situation in hand. That he wasn’t so now unsettled Jack deeply.

‘How many hours until we reach Erebor?’ he asked.

The answer was immediate. ‘No more than an hour.’ He didn’t say that the enemy would reach it sooner than they would. He didn’t need to.

Jack urged his horse to go faster.

* * *

 

  

‘This is a good quality cloth, Mistress Cathy,’ the market vendor told her, holding up the bolt of fabric for Cathy’s inspection. ‘You couldn’t find better.’

She didn’t doubt that. Cathy often frequented Fion’s stall for her materials and had never left unsatisfied. And, true to expectations, he did not disappoint now. She would be able to make a very fine tunic for young Harry out of this.

‘What do you think?’ she asked her young charge. Duria had entrusted their cousin to Cathy for the day so that she may take him shopping. And, after the shopping was done, she could take his measurements and get started on actually making him some clothes that fit him. Harry had come here with only summer clothes, a few wearable gifts of the elves and Alfur’s cloak. It wasn’t going to do for winter and Cathy had been quick to volunteer her services.

Harry looked like he was out of his depth. ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed.

Too late she realised that her own peers had not shown even the smallest spark of interest in such matters at that age either. The same was true for Dari and Nari. Their parents chose what they wore and that was the way of things.

Fion was not discouraged by this lack of interest. ‘The colour would suit you, I think, young Master. And it’s soft against the skin. Won’t make you itch all over like the cloth the men of the Lake make. Go on, have a feel.’ He held it out so that Harry could touch it.

The child hesitantly did. He even managed a smile when he realised the cloth was pleasant to the touch.

‘We’ll take this one,’ Cathy decided. She was starting to see that Harry was far too shy to say it when he wanted something. He was raised with good manners, but according to Alfur, who had visited yesterday to Harry’s great delight, he hadn’t been so quiet on the road.

‘Too much change for such a young lad in such a short time,’ he’d told her. ‘Small wonder he’s a mite bit overwhelmed.’

So Cathy had decided to take it easy with Harry, to just be kind to him and give him time to get used to this new situation. Ideally he would have been able to stay with his companions from the road, but they were all trained warriors. In these times none could be spared for babysitting, though they had all looked in on him since they had returned. And Harry had come out of his shell every time.

‘Good choice,’ Fion agreed. ‘Do you take it with you now or shall I deliver it later?’

She pondered that. ‘Delivery, I think. We have some more purchases to make. Harry will need another pair of boots, because I think he’s outgrowing the pair he has.’ He hadn’t told her, but she had seen him struggle when he put them on this morning. ‘And we shall need a warm fabric I can use to fashion a cloak out of.’ Harry still used Alfur’s spare one, with the owner’s blessing, but it was too big for him. If they were to look after him right, he should have things that fit him properly.

Fion’s face lit up. ‘I have just the thing you need. Wait one moment.’ He disappeared underneath his stall. Cathy couldn’t see under it herself, but she heard his muttering and the sound of boxes being rearranged and turned over in search of what he needed. She had known Fion for years and was therefore familiar with the process, but Harry clearly wasn’t. And for one who was seeing this for the first time, it must be a little bit comical. Even so, she was surprised to hear a giggle. It was suppressed quickly, but the expression on the boy’s face was one of genuine amusement.

_Thank the Maker for that._

Fion resurfaced a moment later. ‘There we go,’ he announced. ‘You’ll never be cold again with this wrapped around you. And that’s a guarantee.’

Cathy took his word for it. She told him they would take that too and reached into her purse for the money while Fion wrapped her purchases up. ‘How much?’ she asked.

Fion named his price. It was, as always, more than reasonable, good solid pay for good solid work. Men were forever complaining about how expensive the products of the dwarves were, but they always forgot to take into account that the things they made were of far superior quality and that the price reflected this. They made things to last.

‘If I may be so bold to ask, who’s the lad?’ Fion inquired when Harry’s attention wandered to the stall across the road that appeared to be selling sweets.

‘A cousin of mine,’ Cathy replied. ‘My mother’s kinfolk.’ It was the easiest way to explain without going into detail. She wouldn’t know how to begin explaining if she’d had to. ‘His mother has been caught in the grey wizard’s schemes and he hasn’t got another soul in the world to care for him.’

That too was the truth. Harry had none besides Cathy and her siblings in this world, but he had family in that other one. He had mentioned an aunt and cousins and his grandparents. And Cathy found it hard to forget what she had learned about what her own mother’s family had gone through when she had vanished into thin air. _And now they are going through that over Harry and his mother._

‘Sorry state of affairs,’ Fion judged. Those were in fact exactly the words she was looking for. ‘No good has ever come from getting involved with a wizard.’

Cathy grimaced, unable to deny the truth of those words, and yet also being keenly aware that they were not entirely right either. Without Gandalf’s interference she would never have come into being. The world she knew would not be. Everything would be different, and not necessarily better; she had read her mother’s book enough times to know this.

‘Folk don’t always get a say in the matter,’ she pointed out instead.

‘More’s the pity,’ Fion observed.

At least that she agreed with whole-heartedly.

They concluded their business and moved on, stopping off at the sweets stall before continuing with their actual business. Cathy strongly suspected that Harry was getting increasingly bored with the proceedings and if she were to maintain his interest, a small enticement was in order.

Of course she could almost hear Duria complain about spoiling his lunch, about being far too indulgent and really, was she going to spoil her own child in this manner once it was born as well? Cathy liked to think that there was rather a great difference between spoiling and giving something to a child who had lost so much in recent months. Nobody in their right mind would ever think Harry was a spoiled child. Not even Duria could possibly even entertain that notion.

And if she was honest, Cathy didn’t have a strategy for how to raise her own child. Even though she was now showing, it felt like something that was still a very long way off, if it was ever going to happen in the first place. They were at war and she knew better than to think that Erebor would be safe. It was a safer place than Dale, easier to defend. But in these days nowhere was really safe. Sauron had seen to that.

 _And we are far safer than my brothers_ , she knew. When she had learned what Thráin was up to she had come close to tearing her hair out in frustration. Of course, the mission he undertook was a necessary one, but there were many who could have gone on such a journey. Why did it always have to be Thráin? Did he not understand that he was needed at home? He ought to be at Thoren’s side, not a world away on a secret quest.

‘Well, I think we have everything,’ she said some hours later. She gracefully pretended not to hear Harry’s sigh of relief. ‘Let’s head home.’

They left the market behind and with it the crowds. She had held Harry’s hand firmly to stop him getting lost during their outing, but now she released him. There weren’t as many people about here.

‘What happened here?’ Harry asked when they passed a bit of wall with holes in it.

‘That would have been the dragon Smaug,’ Cathy replied. There were still areas that needed renovating. She had seen one of those up close some months ago. By all accounts that was an experience she would prefer to forget.

It shouldn’t surprise her that Harry already knew the tale. If Glóin hadn’t told it on the road, he would have heard it from Duria’s sons, whose preferred bedtime stories were full of dragons and adventures.

‘He died long ago, didn’t he?’ Harry asked.

‘Aye, very long ago, before I was born,’ Cathy agreed. She hadn’t seen a real one in all her days and would like to keep it like that. All she had to go on were her Uncle Ori’s drawings. But those were just an images. She found it difficult to imagine the sheer size of him. ‘But he did a lot of damage around these parts and we haven’t gotten round to repairing all of it just yet.’ They were getting awfully close in some places, but all of that would have to wait until after war’s end.

_If we are still there then._

‘Tell you what, why don’t you and I go to see where he had his lair,’ she suggested, as much to entertain Harry as to distract herself from a line of thinking she did not want to pursue any further. And they were on an outing. It was practically mandatory that they did something that could be described as fun.

The boy’s face lit up. ‘Can we?’

Cathy nodded. ‘We most certainly can. Come on, I know a few shortcuts that will get us there. Unless you are afraid of the dark?’ she added as an afterthought.

Dwarves as a rule weren’t bothered by it, but Harry was not a dwarf. It wasn’t a difficult thing to remember, or it shouldn’t be. But there was something about him that reminded her of her twin brother when he was young, both in looks and behaviour. It wasn’t so clear when Harry was being so quiet and polite – Jack hadn’t been polite one day in his life if he could help it, despite their parents’ efforts – but when he had that little delighted smile on his face, the resemblance was uncanny. And for all Jack’s moping that it was not so, he was very much a dwarf.

The child shook his head almost straight away, but Cathy suspected that it was partly because he did not want to lose face. But she was not going to call him out on that.

‘Well, you’ll need to hold my hand,’ she said, omitting the fact that it would be to reassure him. ‘I don’t fancy losing you in the dark.’ And there was that too. ‘And I don’t want to have to explain that to my sister.’ That was a thing best avoided on good days. And Duria’s temper had been somewhat on the short side this morning.

Harry didn’t kick up a fuss about being too old to hold hands. She could almost certainly have expected such behaviour from her nephews, but Harry’s manners were impeccable. Cathy got the impression that Beth Andrews was not unlike Duria. From what she had heard she thought the woman was strict, academically inclined and more comfortable around books than actual people. Yet Harry clearly thought the world of her, so she must at least be a little more affectionate than Cathy’s own sister, who wouldn’t know kindness even if it danced naked in front of her.

Cathy knew this part of the Mountain well. When she had been a child, she had liked to play pretend with Jack and Flói. They would imagine they were the brave heroes who had sneaked in through the side door to slay a dragon and for them nothing would do but the actual place where it had all happened. So one day Cathy had “borrowed” the key from her father’s key ring – there had been some fuss over that when he had discovered he was suddenly short a key – and they had made their way to the door. They had opened it and gone outside. They had left the door ajar, though. It hadn’t been Durin’s Day and they knew full well that only on that day could the door be opened from outside. From there they had sneaked inside, through the dark corridor to the treasury, where they had promptly slain their dragon. The dragon in question had been the clerk on duty and he had not appreciated their little re-enactment, so the end of their quest had ended in being sent to the corner to think about what they’d done.

But those days were long behind her now. Maybe one day, if they all survived the coming days, her own child would do something similar with friends or cousins or perhaps even siblings. It was a pretty picture she painted. _But whimsical and far-fetched_ , she reminded herself.

She walked quickly with Harry beside her. There were more main roads that would lead to the same destination, but they would be far more crowded and detours at that.

‘Did the dragon come here too?’ Harry asked.

‘No,’ Cathy said. ‘No, he was far too big to fit in here. I don’t think he could have squeezed even his head or his paw into this corridor, never mind his whole body.’ That had been her mother’s response when faced with the same question. And since she, unlike Cathy, had actually seen Smaug when he was alive, it was a good answer to give.

‘Oh,’ said Harry.

Cathy was fully prepared to tell more tales, second-hand accounts though they were, but something stopped her before she could begin. They were in the corridor leading up to the side door now. The treasury was still some way ahead and the door itself even further and all of it was cloaked in darkness.

But there were footsteps.

‘Stop,’ she whispered. ‘Hush.’

Her nephews would have asked why, but not Harry. He just obeyed.

It was a good thing that he did, because now that the silence fell over them, the sound of footsteps was that much clearer to hear. Whoever the feet belonged to, they took great care to make as little sound as possible. Even so, it was very clear that there were a very great many of them.

And nobody should be here. Cathy could get into the treasury from this way because she had a key. And there were no doors leading anywhere other than outside that came out on this particular corridor. Nobody should have any reason to be here.

 _Something’s wrong_. She wasn’t an elf that she had some sort of magical instinct that told her so, but she could feel it deep in her bones. Her mother had always called it instinct. It could be at that, but the name did not really matter now.

‘Harry,’ she whispered. ‘Run back, fast as you can and get help. Tell them there are intruders come in through the side door.’ If this turned out to be some of their own people on an exercise of some kind she would never ever hear the end of this, but she was rather safe than sorry. And she strongly suspected there wasn’t much safety to be had in the near future either.

Harry nodded. There was only little light to see by, shining into the corridor from the hallway behind them, but there was enough to ascertain that his face was a little pale. Whether or not he fully understood the gravity of the situation remained to be seen, but he knew that something was amiss.

‘Good,’ she said, taking care to keep the tremor out of her voice. _How can they be here? Isn’t that door kept locked at all times? Maker help me, I am unarmed._ ‘Run. Don’t stop for anything. Just run and fetch help. Go!’

Harry ran. At least he would not be in danger with her.

She mustered all her courage and took a deep breath. Then she raised her voice: ‘Who goes there?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: there’s trouble inside the Mountain and out of it.  
> There will be a slight delay for the next chapter. I’m moving next week, so I won’t be updating either this or Duly Noted next Sunday. I’m trying to be back with a chapter of Duly Noted on the 11th and The Book the week after that, but it may be another week’s delay, depending on how quickly I can get everything organised at my new place. I hope you’ll understand.  
> Thank you very much for reading. Reviews would be very welcome.


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